UC-NRLF 


B    M     IDM     7bM 


THE  D  O  OM  OF;Mlm:. . 


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VY  Al':;^u  B  V  HN  h  -J  O  N  ^  ■  '5 


'  i  ;^-uaatgpH.»T»?raji 


THE  DOOM  OF  KING  ACRISIUS 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS  ^>:iJ^^ 

By  sir  EDWARD    BURNE-JONES,  Bart.  (^f\\l^ 

The  Garden  of  the  Hesperides Frontispiece 

Danae page      i 

The  Biiild'mg  of  the  Brazen  Tower 

The  Call  of  Perseus 

Perseus  and  the  Sea  Maidens 

The  Grata 

Perseus  and  Medusa 

The  Escape  with  Medusa's  Head 

Atlas  turned  to  Stone 

Andro772eda  chained  to  the  Rock 

The  Killing  of  the  Monster 

Perseus  showing  the  Head  to  Androtiieda 


2 
30 

36 

40 

43 
46. 

50 
54 
56 


ivi544741 


im^  '  ^^MPIIliiiiilM  IT-ARM  I S 

^IN  E- 1  ^B^lR^^l^T-  PENETRAUAGRAIAE- 

MPHAPyM-HiKeAW  '  ■    ta&cafVtobditvsvmbris- 

plGONA-MORTALi:  r  i  ir  NON•MORTALlBVS•Y'NAM:' 
')e•  ferit  •  gem  inae-  syj^gv  ntv  rgeimtqve-  sorores- 
s:ev,senatea3caesoqveer.eptadracone 

)RPKEDAETGOMIT£,SIAM.nSAXEACORPORAPHINEI- 
'  ^IRGOiiORRETsIDAMIhl',SPECVEOIvliRATAMEI)VSAM 


>t^rV^ 


N  the  spring  of  the  year  1868,  sev- 
enteen out  of  the  twenty-four  tales 
of  "The  Earthly  Paradise"  having 
been  completed,  William  Morris  be- 
came more  and  more  interested  in 
the  problem  of  how  best  to  issue 
the  work.  As  early  as  1865  he  had 
decided  that  it  should  be  very  fully 
illustrated  by  his  fellow-countryman 
^and  dearest  friend,  Burne-Jones,  and 
the  latter  had  executed  in  that  year  forty-three  designs  for 
*'The  Story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche."  The  greater  number 
of  these  were  cut  on  the  wood-block  by  Morris,  in  the 
bold  and  simple  manner  which  he  maintained  to  be  the 
only  proper  application  of  the  art,  and  although  much  of 
the  beauty  and  delicacy  of  the  original  drawings  had  been  lost, 
of  necessity,  in  the  cutting,  the  blocks  possessed  a  strength  and 
colouring  very  attractive  in  itself  and  admirably  suited  to  the 
antique  flavour  of  the  poem.  In  the  following  year  other 
drawings  were  prepared  for  *'The  Ring  Given  to  Venus," 
"  Pygmalion,"  and  **  The  Hill  of  Venus."  Some  seventy  sub- 
jects in  all  were  designed,  and  such  drawings  as  were  not 
destroyed  in  the  process  of  cutting  passed  into  the  hands  of 
John  Ruskin,  and  are  now  in  the  Taylorian  Museum  at  Oxford. 
Morris's  plan  was  to  supplement  these  seventy  drawings  with 
something  over  four  hundred  more,  also  by  Burne-Jones,  illus- 
trating the  various  other  tales  of  "  The  Earthly  Paradise,"  and 
to  issue  the  completed  work,  with  its  five  hundred  wood-cut 
illustrations,  in  one  folio  volume.  Had  it  been  possible  to  carry 
out  this  plan  there  is  little  doubt  that  "The  Earthly  Paradise" 
would  have  surpassed  in  beauty  and  in  richness  of  pictorial 
invention  even  the  superb  folio  "Chaucer"  of  1896,  which 
ix 


remains  the  supreme  achievement  of  the  Kelmscott  Press. 
Unfortunately  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  the  production  of 
such  a  volume ;  the  art  of  printing  had  sunk  to  a  low  level  in 
England,  proper  type  could  not  be  found,  and  there  were, 
moreover,  certain  defects  in  the  cutting  of  the  wood-blocks 
which  prevented  them  from  being  altogether  satisfactory  when 
printed.  So  with  great  reluctance  the  original  scheme  was 
abandoned,  and  the  book  was  issued  in  the  regular  way.  **  To 
the  very  last,"  writes  Burne-Jones,  "  we  held  to  our  first  idea 
and  hoped  yet  to  see  the  book  published  in  the  Kelmscott 
Press  in  all  the  fulness  of  its  first  design."  Had  William 
Morris  and  Burne-Jones  lived  a  few  years  longer  this  hope 
might  have  been  realized,  but  with  the  exception  of  the 
drawings  already  spoken  of  there  remain  to  us  now  but  two 
series  which  are  in  any  way  complete  in  themselves,  and  which 
are  available  for  reproduction,  namely,  those  for  **  Pygmalion 
and  the  Image  "  and  those  for  the  story  of  Perseus,  entitled 
"The  Doom  of  King  Acrisius  "  in  "The  Earthly  Paradise." 
In  1872  Burne-Jones  arranged  a  selection  of  the  designs 
for  "  Cupid  and  Psyche "  as  a  frieze  for  the  morning-room 
of  the  Earl  of  Carlisle's  town-house.  No.  i.  Palace  Green, 
London.  The  subjects,  in  some  cases  slightly  altered,  were 
then  drawn  to  the  required  size  on  the  canvas,  and  several 
of  them  were  painted  by  Burne-Jones  himself  in  that  year. 
For  some  years  afterward,  he  worked  at  intervals  upon  the 
series,  until  finding  the  task  too  arduous,  he  called  to  his 
assistance  Mr.  Walter  Crane,  who  completed  it.  Yet  an- 
other scheme  of  interior  decoration  was  commenced  in 
1875,  this  time  for  the  drawing-room  of  the  Right  Honour- 
able Arthur  Balfour,  in  Carleton  Gardens.  Burne-Jones's 
intention  was  to  execute  some  of  the  scenes  from  the 
story   of  Perseus    in    gilt    and   silvered    gesso    upon    a    back- 

X 


ground  of  oak.  The 
decorations  repre- 
senting Pegasus  and 
Chrysaor  springing 
from  the  headless 
trunk  of  Medusa, 
and  Perseus  fleeing 
from  the  Avenging 
Gorgons,  were  car- 
ried to  some  degree 
of  completeness, 
but  a  third,  show- 
ing Perseus  about  to 
slay  Medusa,  never 
progressed  beyond 
the  preliminary 
stages,and  remained 
unfinished  at  the 
death  of  the  artist. 

These  three  decorations  are  here  reproduced. 

In  some  instances  more  than  one  representation  of  a  single 
incident  is  included  in  the  present  book,  and  this  not  without 
reason.  In  the  case  of  Burne-Jones,  although  the  main  idea 
of  a  picture  might  remain  the  same  for  years,  it  was  constantly 
passing  through  stages  of  modification,  improvement,  and  selec- 
tion, and  frequently  resulted  in  his  treating  the  same  idea 
from  several  points  of  view.  His  method  of  work  has  been 
described  by  Malcolm  Bell  in  **  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones : 
A  Record  and  Review,"  as  follows :  "  His  first  process  in  the 
creation  of  a  picture  was  the  crystallization  of  the  floating 
visions  in  his  mind  into  a  design  carefully  drawn  out  in  chalk 
or  pencil.  This  was  generally  modified  from  time  to  time, 
xi 


while  numerous  studies  for  every  detail  were  carried  out  in 
the  intervals  of  other  work.  In  the  case  of  a  large  picture 
this  was,  as  a  rule,  followed  by  a  cartoon,  painted  in  water- 
colours,  of  the  same  size  as  the  proposed  canvas,  and  finished 
elaborately  from  a  small  coloured  sketch.  From  this  the 
final  work  was  copied,  and  further  studies  were  made  before 
the  painting  was  begun.  Each  stage  of  this  was  left  to  dry 
thoroughly,  often  for  months  at  a  time,  before  another  was 
commenced,  and  when  the  last  had  been  concluded,  the  whole 
was  left  for  several  years  before  it  was  permitted  to  be 
varnished,  an  operation  which  he  always  preferred  to  perform 
himself  with  scrupulous  care." 

This  will  explain  why  it  is  that,  with  the  exception  of 
"  Danae  Watching  the  Building  of  the  Brazen  Tower,"  — 
which  did  not  form,  originally,  a  part  of  the  Perseus  series,  — 
and  "  The  Hesperides,"  — a  scene  which  Morris,  in  his  poem, 
passes  over  in  silence,  —  only  three  pictures,  those  entitled 
"Perseus  and  the  Graias,"  "The  Doom  Fulfilled,"  and  "The 
Baleful  Head,"  were  ever  completed  for  this  Perseus  series. 

The  others,  worked  upon  at  intervals  for  a  number  of  years, 
remained  unfinished  at  the  death  of  the  artist.  The  loss  to 
the  world  is  irreparable ;  but  it  is  mitigated  in  a  measure  by 
the  fact  that,  although  none  of  the  remaining  pictures  are 
painted  with  the  elaboration  and  loving  care  which  the  artist  so 
dearly  prized,  they  are  not  really  incomplete  in  one  sense,  in- 
asmuch as  the  soul,  the  essential  essence,  is  there  in  every  case. 
In  some  instances  the  unfinished  picture  is  so  fine  in  conception, 
so  bold  in  execution,  that  any  "finishing,"  though  it  might 
have  made  it  more  beautiful  as  a  decoration,  would  certainly 
have  weakened  it  as  a  painting.  The  superb  movement  of 
the  two  Gorgons,  as  they  wheel  round  in  their  vain  search  for 
Perseus,  invisible  by  virtue  of  the  cap  of  darkness,  is  one  of  the 

xii 


finest  things  in  modern  art,  and  alone  is  worth  a  w  ilaci  ile^s  of 
**  finished  "  pictures  by  lesser  men.  Indeed,  it  is  not  impossible 
that  in  years  to  come  such  works  as  this,  together  with  his 
masterly  drawings  in  pencil  or  in  chalk,  may  be  accounted 
Burne-Jones's  finest  and  most  enduring  contribution  to  con- 
temporary art. 

One  amongst  many  points  of  peculiar  interest  in  the  Perseus 
series  is  the  fact  that  although  the  subjects  of  his  pictures  were 
chosen  from  a  poem  by  William  Morris  —  a  writer  with 
whose  mental  attitude  he  was  in  closer  sympathy  than  with 
that  of  any  other,  present  or  past  —  Burne-Jones  still  preserved 
his  own  point  of  view  and  unmistakably  stamped  his  own 
personality  into  each  design,  each  painting,  that  came  from 
his  hand.  His  conception  of  the  Perseus  story  is  similar  to 
that  of  William  Morris,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  Greek,  nor 
xiii 


even  classical,  but  wholly  medieval  and  romantic,  none  the 
less  in  his  pourtrayal  of  the  incidents  connected  with  it  he 
has  followed  more  closely  some  of  the  main  features  of  the 
original  story  than  has  Morris,  and  consequently  has  pictured 
scenes  of  which  the  latter  makes  no  mention,  such  as  "  Perseus 
and  the  Sea-Maidens,"  *' The  Hesperides,"  and  "The  Birth 
of  Pegasus  and  Chrysaor,"  or  has  departed  from  the  Morris 
text,  in  order  to  improve  upon  it  where  the  tale  as  told  by 
earlier  writers  afforded  material  better  suited  to  pictorial 
treatment.  This  is  especially  noticeable  in  his  representation 
of  the  two  Gorgons,  Stheno  and  Euryale,  who  in  "  The  Doom 
of  King  Acrisius,"  are  merely  two  bent,  miserable,  harmless 
old  women,  for  whom  we  feel  pity  rather  than  horror. 

Burne-Jones,  in  two  pictures,  perhaps  the  finest  of  the 
series,  has  given  them  the  forms  of  fair  women,  in  nothing 
monstrous,  though  he  has  restored  to  them  their  wings ;  but 
in  two  other  representations  has  approached  more  nearly  to  the 
older  versions  of  the  story,  with  all  its  details  of  snaky  locks, 
brazen  plumage,  and  claws.  He  has,  likewise,  bettered  Morris 
in  his  conception  of  the  action  of  the  two  Gorgons  immedi- 
ately following  the  death  of  their  sister  Medusa,  killed  by  a 
foe  they  cannot  see.  Decorative,  pictorial,  dramatic  at  one 
and  the  same  time,  this  picture  is,  surely,  one  of  Burne-Jones's 
triumphs.  "  Into  the  air  they  sprang  yelling,  and  looked  for 
him  who  had  done  the  deed.  Thrice  they  swung  round  and 
round,  like  hawks  that  beat  for  a  partridge ;  and  thrice  they 
snuffed  round  and  round,  like  hounds  who  draw  upon  a  deer. 
At  last  they  struck  upon  the  scent  of  blood,  and  they  checked 
for  a  moment  to  make  sure ;  and  then  on  they  rushed  with  a 
fearful  howl,  while  the  wind  rattled  hoarse  in  their  wings." 

The  giant  Atlas,  turned  to  stone  as  he  keeps  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  apart,  is  likewise  a  picture  one  would  not  feel 

xiv 


disposed  to  spare  from  the  series,  even  though  it  is  entirely  at 
variance  with  Morris's  text,  while  the  inclusion  of  **  The 
Hesperides  "  and  *'  Perseus  and  the  Sea-Maidens  "  is  sufficiently 
excused  by  the  beauty  of  the  works  themselves.  The  second, 
and  in  the  present  reproduction,  unfinished  version  of  "  Perseus 
and  the  Graias,"  sometimes  called  **The  Grey  Graia?,"  is 
especially  interesting,  inasmuch  as  it  was  the  first  of  a  pro- 
jected series  of  panels  dealing  with  the  Story  of  Perseus,  which 
it  was  Burne-Jones's  intention  to  execute  by  riveting  plates  of 
gold  and  silver  upon  a  wooden  background,  upon  which  the 
other  portions  of  the  picture  were  to  be  completed  in  colour. 
A  Latin  inscription,  composed  by  Professor  Jebb,  was  painted 
above  it,  setting  forth  the  whole  story  of  the  set  of  which 
it  was  intended  to  form  a  part.  It  was  found  that  the  com- 
bination of  relieved 
metal  and  flat  back- 
ground was  not  alto- 
gether a  happy  one, 
and  the  series  was 
never  carried  far- 
ther. At  the  time 
when  Mr.  Hollyer 
made  his  photo- 
graph of  the  paint- 
ing, the  gold  and 
silver  plates  had  not 
been  riveted  into 
their  places,  which 
are  indicated  by  the 
chalk  outlines  in 
the  original. 

It  is  unlikely  that 

XV 


this  century  will  see  any  such  close  alliance  between  the  works 
of  any  poet  and  painter  as  existed  in  the  case  of  William 
Morris  and  Burne-Jones;  therefore  it  seems  well  worth  while 
to  carry  out,  as  far  as  may  be  at  this  late  day,  a  project  which 
both  men  held  dear,  but  which  neither  of  them  lived  to  see 
realized,  and  to  combine  in  one  volume  the  poem  and  pictures 
of  the  Story  of  Perseus.  The  pictures  are  from  photographs 
made  by  Mr.  Frederick  Hollyer  (by  whose  kind  permission 
they  are  reproduced  in  this  book)  and  are,  in  every  case,  from 
the  original  paintings.  Though  quite  unlike  the  bold  and 
simple  wood-cuts  which  Morris  loved,  and  which  he  would 
have  used,  doubtless,  had  he  issued  an  illustrated  folio  edition 
of  "  The  Earthly  Paradise "  from  the  Kelmscott  Press,  they 
are,  on  the  other  hand,  well-nigh  perfect  translations  of  the 
pictures  by  Burne-Jones,  in  all  but  colour  ;  and  what  is  lost  in 
sentiment  by  this  departure  from  the  Morris  ideal  of  simple 
line  cuts,  is  gained  in  fidelity  to  even  the  most  delicate  shading 
of  Burne-Jones's  subtlest  designs. 


FITZROY  CARRINGTON. 


Orienta  Cottage, 

Mamaroneck,  New  York. 
February,   1902. 


XVI 


REAMER     OF    DREAMS,    BORN 

OUT    OF   MY    DUE   TIME, 
WHY  SHOULD  I  STRIVE  TO  SET 

THE   CROOKED    STRAIGHT? 
LET    IT    SUFFICE    ME      THAT 
MY   MURMURING    RHYME 
BEATS    WITH    LIGHT    WING    AGAINST    THE 

IVORY    GATE, 
TELLING  A  TALE   NOT  TOO  IMPORTUNATE 
TO  THOSE  WHO  IN  THE  SLEEPY  REGION  STAY 
LULLED  BY  THE  SINGER  OF  AN   EMPTY  DAY. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS 


OW  of  the  King  Acrisius  shall 

ye  hear, 
Who,   thinking   he    could   free 

his  life  from  fear. 
Did    that    which    brought    but 

death  on  him  at  last. 
In  Argos  did  he   reign  in  days 
«^^  long  past, 
''And  had  one  daughter,  fair  as  man  could  see. 
Who  in  old  tales  is  called  Danae  ; 
But  as  she  grew  up  fairer  day  by  day, 
A  wandering  oracle  to  him  did  say, 
That  whatso  else  might  happen,  soon  or  late 
He  should  be  taken  in  the  toils  of  fate. 
And  by  the  fruit  of  his  own  daughter's  womb 
Be  slain  at  last,  and  set  within  his  tomb; 
And  therefore  heavy  sorrow  on  him  fell. 
That  she  he  thought  to  love  so  passing  well 
Must  henceforth  be  his  deadliest  dread  and  woe. 

Long  time  he  pondered  what  was  best  to  do ; 
And  whiles  he  thought  that  he  would  send  her  forth 
To  wed  some  king  far  in  the  snowy  north. 
And  whiles  that  by  great  gifts  of  goods  and  gold 
Some  lying  prophet  might  be  bought  and  sold 
To  swear  his  daughter  he  must  sacrifice. 
If  he  would  yet  find  favour  in  the  eyes 
Of  the  dread  gods  who  govern  everything  ; 
And  sometimes  seemed  it  better  to  the  King, 
That  he  might  'scape  the  shedding  of  her  blood 
By  leaving  her  in  some  far  lonely  wood. 
Wherein  the  Dryads  might  the  maiden  find. 


Or  beasts  might  slay  her,  following  but  their  kind. 

So  passed  his  anxious  days,  until  at  last, 
When  many  a  plot  through  his  vexed  brain  had  passed. 
He  lacked  the  heart  his  flesh  and  blood  to  slay, 
Yet  neither  would  he  she  should  go  away 
From  out  his  sight,  or  be  at  large  at  all ; 
Therefore  his  wisest  craftsmen  did  he  call. 
And  bade  them  make  for  him  a  tower  foursquare. 
Such  as  no  man  had  yet  seen  anywhere, 
For  therein  neither  stone  nor  wood  should  be. 
But  all  be  wrought  of  brass  most  cunningly. 

Now  thither  oft  would  maiden  Danae  stray. 
And  watch  its  strange  walls  growing  day  by  day, 
Because,  poor  soul !  she  knew  not  anything 
Of  these  forebodings  of  the  fearful  King, 
Nor  how  he  meted  out  for  her  this  doom. 
Therein  to  dwell  as  in  a  living  tomb. 
But  on  a  day,  she,  coming  there  alone, 
Found  it  all  finished  and  the  workmen  gone, 
And  no  one  nigh,  so  through  the  open  door 
She  entered,  and  went  up  from  floor  to  floor. 
And  through  its  chambers  wandered  without  dread  ; 
And,  entering  one,  she  found  therein  a  bed, 
Dight  daintily,  as  though  to  serve  a  queen  ; 
And  all  the  walls  adorned  with  hangings  green. 
Tables  and  benches  in  good  order  set, 
And  all  things  new,  by  no  one  used  as  yet. 

With  that  she  murmured,  **  When  again  I  see 
My  father,  will  I  bid  him  tell  to  me 
Who  shall  live  here  and  die  here,  for,  no  doubt. 
Whoever  enters  here  shall  ne'er  go  out : 

2 


Therefore  the  walls  are  made  so  high  and  great, 

Therefore  the  bolts  are  measureless  of  weight, 

The  windows  small,  barred,  turned  towards  the  sea. 

That  none  from  land  may  tell  who  here  may  be. 

No  doubt  some  man  the  King  my  father  fears 

Above  all  other,  here  shall  pass  his  years. 

Alas,  poor  soul !   scarce  shall  he  see  the  sun. 

Or  care  to  know  when  the  hot  day  is  done. 

Or  ever  see  sweet  flowers  again,  or  grass. 

Or  take  much  note  of  how  the  seasons  pass. 

Truly  we  folk  who  dwell  in  rest  knd  ease 

But  lightly  think  of  such  abodes  as  these ; 

And  I,  who  live  wrapped  round  about  with  bliss. 

Shall  go  from  hence  and  soon  forget  all  this  : 

For  in  my  garden  many  a  sweet  flower  blooms. 

Wide  open  are  the  doors  of  all  my  rooms. 

And  lightly  folk  come  in  and  lightly  go  ; 

And  I  have  known  as  yet  but  childish  woe." 

Therewith  she  turned  about  to  leave  the  place. 
But  as  unto  the  door  she  set  her  face 
A  bitter  wailing  from  outside  she  heard, 
And  somewhat  therewithal  she  waxed  afeard, 
And  stopped  awhile  ;   yet  listening,  she  but  thought : 
"  This  is  the  man  who  to  his  doom  is  brought 
By  weeping  friends,  who  come  to  see  the  last 
Of  that  dear  face  they  know  shall  soon  be  past 
From  them  for  ever."      Then  she  'gan  to  go 
Adown  the  brazen  stairs  with  footsteps  slow. 

But  quick  the  shrieks  and  wailing  grew  anear. 
Till  in  her  ears  it  sounded  sharp  and  clear, 
And  then  she  said,  '*  Alas  !   and  must  I  see 
3 


These  weeping  faces  drawn  with  agony  ? 
Would  I  had  not  come  here  to-day  !  "      Withal 
She  started,  as  upon  her  ear  did  fall 
The  sound  of  shutting  of  the  outer  door, 
And  people  coming  up  from  floor  to  floor ; 
And  paler  then  she  grew,  but  moved  to  meet 
The  woful  sounds  and  slow-ascending  feet. 
Shrinking  with  pity  for  that  wretched  one 
Whose  life  of  joy  upon  that  day  was  done. 

Thus  down  the  stairs  with  saddened  heart  she  passed 
And  to  a  lower  chamber  came  at  last ; 
But  as  she  went  beneath  the  archway  wide 
The  door  was  opened  from  the  other  side, 
And  in  poured  many  maidens,  whom  she  knew 
For  her  own  fair  companions,  leal  and  true ; 
And  after  them  two  soldiers  armed  there  came. 
With  knitted  brows  and  eyes  downcast  for  shame. 

But  when  those  damsels  saw  her  standing  there. 
Anew  they  wept,  and  tore  their  unbound  hair ; 
But  midst  their  wailing,  still  no  word  they  said. 
Until  she  spoke  oppressed  with  sickening  dread : 

*'  O  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  me  then  ! 
For  is  my  father  slain  of  outland  men  ? 
Or  have  the  gods  sent  death  upon  the  land  ? 
Or  is  it  mine  own  death  that  they  command  ? 
Alas,  alas  !   but  slay  me  quick,  I  pray, 
Nor  let  me  linger  on  from  day  to  day. 
Maddened  with  fear  like  this,  that  sickens  me. 
And  makes  me  seem  the  half-dead  thing  ye  see." 

Then,  like  a  man  constrained,  a  soldier  said 
These  cruel  words  unto  the  wretched  maid : 


"  Lady,  lose  hope  and  fear  now  once  for  all ; 

Here  must  thou  dwell  betwixt  brass  wall  and  wall 

Until  the  gods  send  gentle  death  to  thee ; 

And  these  as  erst  thine  handmaidens  shall  be ; 

And  if  thou  askest  why  the  thing  is  so, 

Thus  the  King  wills  it,  for  a  while  ago 

An  oracle  foretold  that  thou  shouldst  live 

To  have  a  son,  who  bitter  death  should  give 

Unto  thy  father  ;   so,  to  save  this  shame 

From  falling  on  the  glorious  Argive  name, 

He  deemed  it  well  that  thou  shouldst  live  indeed, 

But  yet  apart  from  man  thy  life  shouldst  lead. 

So  in  this  place  thy  days  must  pass  away. 

And  we  who  are  thy  guards,  from  day  to  day 

Will  bring  thee  everything  that  thou  mayst  need. 

But  pardon  us,  constrained  to  do  this  deed 

By  the  King's  will,  and  oaths  that  we  have  sworn 

Ere  to  this  life  of  sorrow  thou  wert  born." 

Therewith  they  turned  and  went,  and  soon  the  sound 
Of  shutting  doors  smote  like  a  deadly  wound 
Into  her  heart;   and  yet  no  word  she  spoke. 
But  fell  as  one  beneath  a  deadly  stroke. 

Then  they  who  there  her  fellows  were  to  be 
Bore  up  her  body,  groaning  heavily. 
Unto  the  upper  chamber  where  that  day 
She  came  before,  and  on  the  bed  did  lay 
The  wretched  maid,  and  then  they  sat  around. 
With  heavy  heads  and  hair  that  swept  the  ground. 
To  weep  the  passing  of  those  happy  days 
When  many  an  one  their  happy  lot  would  praise. 
5 


But  now  and  then,  when  bitterly  would  sting 
The  loss  of  some  nigh-reached  desired  thing, 
To  a  loud  wail  their  weeping  would  arise. 

Then  in  a  while  did  Danae  ope  her  eyes. 
And  to  her  aching  forehead  raised  her  hand ; 
But  when  she  saw  that  wan,  dishevelled  band. 
She  soon  remembered  this  was  no  ill  dream. 
But  that  all  things  were  e'en  as  they  did  seem. 
Then  she  arose,  but  soon  upon  the  bed 
Sank  down  again,  and  hid  her  troubled  head. 
And  moaned  and  moaned,  and  when  a  damsel  came 
And  touched  her  hand,  and  called  her  by  her  name. 
She  knew  her  not,  but  turned  her  head  away  : 
Nor  did  she  know  when  dark  night  followed  day. 

So  passed  by  many  a  day  in  mourning  sore. 
And  weariness  oppressed  her  evermore 
In  that  unhappy  prison-house  of  brass ; 
And  yet  a  little  the  first  sting  did  pass 
That  smote  her,  and  she  ate  and  drank  and  slept, 
And  fair  and  bright  her  body  Venus  kept. 
Yea,  such  a  grace  the  sea-born  goddess  fair 
Did  to  her,  that  the  ripples  of  her  hair 
Grew  brighter,  and  the  colour  in  her  face 
And  lovely  lips  waned  not  in  that  sad  place ; 
And  rounder  grew  her  limbs  from  day  to  day  ; 
Yea,  as  upon  the  golden  bed  she  lay. 
You  would  have  thought  the  Queen  herself  had  come 
To  meet  some  love  far  from  her  golden  home. 

And  once  it  happed  at  the  first  hour  of  day 
In  golden  morn  upon  her  bed  she  lay, 

6 


Newly  awakened  to  her  daily  woe, 
And  heard  the  rough  sea  beat  the  rocks  below, 
The  wheeling  sea-gull  screaming  on  the  wing, 
Sea-shallows  swift,  and  many  a  happy  thing. 
Till  bitterly  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheek, 
And  stretching  forth  her  arms  and  fingers  weak, 
'Twixt  moans  these  piteous  helpless  words  she  said  : 
*'  O  Queen  Diana,  make  me  now  thy  maid. 
And  take  me  from  this  place  and  set  me  down 
By  the  boar-haunted  hills,  that  oak-woods  crown, 
Amid  thy  crowd  of  trim-girt  maidens  fair. 

"And  shall  I  not  be  safe  from  men-folk  there. 
Thou  cruel  King,  when  she  is  guarding  me. 
The  mighty  maid  from  whom  the  shepherds  flee. 
When  in  the  gathering  dusk  'twixt  day  and  night. 
The  dead  leaves  tell  them  of  her  footsteps  light. 
Because  they  mind  how  dear  Actason  bought 
The  lovely  sight  for  which  he  never  sought, 
Diana  naked  in  the  water  wan. 

"  Yea,  what  fear  should  I  have  of  any  man 
When  through  the  woods  I,  wandering  merrily. 
With  girt-up  gown,  sharp  sword  upon  the  thigh, 
Full  quiver  on  the  back,  stout  bow  in  hand. 
Should  tread  with  firm  feet  many  a  grassy  land, 
And  grow  strong-limbed  in  following  up  the  deer. 
And  meet  the  lions'  eyes  with  little  fear  ? 

"  Alas  !   no  doubt  she  hears  not ;   many  a  maid 
She  has  already,  of  no  beast  afraid. 
Crisp-haired,  with  arms  made  meet  for  archery, 
Whose  limbs  unclad  no  man  shall  ever  see ; 
Though  the  birds  see  them,  and  the  seeding  grass 
7 


Harsh  and  unloving  over  them  may  pass, 

When  carelessly  through  rough  and  smooth  they  run, 

And  bough  and  briar  catches  many  a  one. 

"  Alas  !   why  on  these  free  maids  is  my  thought, 
When  to  such  misery  my  life  is  brought  ? 
I,  who  so  long  a  happy  maid  have  been. 
The  daughter  of  a  great  King  and  a  Queen ; 
And  why  these  fresh  things  do  I  think  upon. 
Who  now  shall  see  but  little  of  the  sun  ?  » 

"  Here  every  day  shall  have  the  same  sad  tale. 
My  weary  damsels  with  their  faces  pale, 
The  dashing  of  the  sea  on  this  black  rock. 
Pipe  of  the  wind  through  cranny  and  through  lock, 
The  sea-bird's  cry,  like  mine  grown  hoarse  and  shrill. 
The  far-off  sound  of  horn  upon  the  hill, 
The  merry  pipe  about  the  shepherd's  home. 
And  all  the  things  whereto  I  ne'er  may  come. 

"  O  ye  who  rule  below,  I  pray  this  boon, 
I  may  not  live  here  long,  but  perish  soon. 
Forgotten,  but  at  peace,  since  I  feel  nought ; 
For  even  now  it  comes  across  my  thought 
That  here  my  wretched  body  dwells  alone. 
And  that  my  soul  with  all  my  hope  is  gone. 

"  Father,  thy  blood  upon  thine  own  head  be 
If  any  solace  Venus  send  to  me 
Within  this  wretched  place  which  thou  hast  made. 
Of  thine  own  flesh  and  blood  too  much  afraid." 

Truly  Diana  heard  not,  for  that  tide 
Upon  the  green  grass  by  a  river  side, 
Wherein  she  had  just  bathed  her  body  sweet, 

8 


She  stooped  to  tie  the  sandals  to  her  feet, 
Her  linen  gown  upon  the  herbage  lay, 
And  round  her  was  there  standing  many  a  may 
Making  her  ready  for  the  morning  chase. 

But  it  so  happed  that  Venus  by  the  place 
Was  passing,  just  arisen  from  the  sea. 
And  heard  the  maid  complaining  bitterly. 
So  to  the  window-bars  she  drew  anigh. 
And  thence  unseen,  she  saw  the  maiden  lie. 
As  on  the  grass  herself  she  might  have  lain 
When  in  the  thicket  lay  Adonis  slain ; 
For  power  and  joy  she  smiled  thereat,  and  thought 
"  She  shall  not  suffer  all  this  pain  for  nought." 
And  slowly  for  Olympus  sailed  away, 
And  thither  came  at  hottest  of  the  day. 

Then  through  the  heavenly  courts  she  went  and  when 
She  found  the  father  both  of  gods  and  men 
She  smiled  upon  him,  and  said,  "  Knowest  thou 
What  deeds  are  wrought  by  men  in  Argos  now .? 
Wherein  a  brazen  tower  well  builded  is. 
That  hides  a  maid  away  from  all  my  bliss; 
Since  thereby  thinks  Acrisius  to  forego. 
This  doom  that  has  been  fated  long  ago. 
That  by  his  daughter's  son  he  shall  be  slain ; 
Wherefore  he  puts  the  damsel  to  this  pain 
To  see  no  man,  and  thinks  to  'scape  his  doom 
If  she  but  live  and  die  with  barren  womb  ; 
And  great  dishonour  is  it  unto  me 
That  such  a  maiden  lives  so  wretchedly ; 
And  great  dishonour  is  it  to  us  all 
That  ill  upon  a  guiltless  head  should  fall 
9 


To  save  a  King  from  what  we  have  decreed. 
Now,  therefore,  tell  me,  shall  his  impious  deed 
Save  him  alive,  while  she  that  might  have  borne 
Great  kings  and  glorious  heroes,  lives  forlorn 
Of  love's  delight,  in  solitude  and  woe?" 

Then  said  the  Thunderer,  "  Daughter,  nowise  so 
Shall  this  be  in  the  end ;   heed  what  shall  fall, 
And  let  none  think  that  any  brazen  wall 
Can  let  the  Gods  from  doing  what  shall  be." 

Now  therewithal  went  Venus  to  the  sea 
Glad  of  her  father's  words,  and,  as  she  went. 
Unseen  the  gladness  of  the  spring  she  sent 
Across  the  happy  lands  o'er  which  she  moved. 
Until  all  men  felt  joyous  and  beloved. 

But  while  to  Paphos  carelessly  she  fared. 
All  day  upon  the  tower  the  hot  sun  glared. 
And  Danae  within  that  narrow  space 
Went  to  and  fro,  and  sometimes  hid  her  face 
Between  her  hands,  moaning  in  her  despair, 
Or  sometimes  tore  the  fillets  from  her  hair. 
And  sometimes  would  begin  a  piteous  tale 
Unto  her  maids,  and  in  the  midst  would  fail 
For  sobs  and  tears  ;   but  mostly  would  she  sit 
Over  against  the  window,  watching  it, 
And  feel  the  light  wind  blowing  from  the  sea 
Against  her  face,  with  hands  laid  listlessly 
Together  in  her  lap  ;   so  passed  the  day. 
And  to  their  sleep  her  damsels  went  away. 
And  through  the  dead  of  night  she  slept  awhile, 
But  when  the  dawn  came,  woke  up  with  a  smile, 

10 


As  though  she  had  forgotten  all  her  pain, 
But  soon  the  heavy  burden  felt  again, 
And  on  her  bed  lay  tossing  wretchedly. 
Until  the  sun  had  nigh  looked  o'er  the  sea. 

In  that  fresh  morn  was  no  one  stirring  yet. 
And  many  a  man  his  troubles  did  forget 
Buried  in  sleep,  but  nothing  she  forgat. 
She  raised  herself  and  up  in  bed  she  sat, 
And  towards  the  window  turned  round  wearily 
To  watch  the  changing  colours  of  the  sky  ; 
And  many  a  time  she  sighed,  and  seemed  as  though 
She  would  have  told  the  story  of  her  woe 
To  whatsoever  god  near  by  might  be 
Betwixt  the  grey  sky  and  the  cold  grey  sea. 
But  to  her  lips  no  sound  at  all  would  rise. 
Except  those  oft-repeated  heavy  sighs. 

And  yet,  indeed,  within  a  little  while 
Her  face  grew  calm,  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
Stole  o'er  her  parted  lips  and  sweet  grey  eyes. 
And  slowly  from  the  bed  did  she  arise. 
And  towards  the  window  drew,  and  yet  did  seem, 
Although  her  eyes  were  open,  still  to  dream. 

There  on  the  sill  she  laid  her  slender  hand, 
And  looking  seaward,  pensive  did  she  stand. 
And  seemed  as  though  she  waited  for  the  sun 
To  bring  her  news  her  misery  was  done ; 
At  last  he  came  and  over  the  green  sea 
His  golden  road  shone  out  right  gloriously. 
And  into  Danae's  face  his  glory  came 
And  lit  her  softly  waving  hair  like  flame. 
II 


But  in  his  light  she  held  out  both  her  hands. 

As  though  he  brought  her  from  some  far-off  lands 

Healing  for  all  her  great  distress  and  woe. 

But  yellower  now  the  sunbeams  seemed  to  grow 
Not  whiter  as  their  wont  is,  and  she  heard 
A  tinkling  sound  that  made  her,  half  afeard. 
Draw  back  a  little  from  the  fresh  green  sea, 
Then  to  a  clang  the  noise  rose  suddenly, 
And  gently  was  she  smitten  on  the  breast. 
And  some  bright  thing  within  her  palm  did  rest. 
And  trickled  down  her  shoulder  and  her  side. 
And  on  her  limbs  a  little  did  abide, 
Or  lay  upon  her  feet  a  little  while. 

Then  in  her  face  increased  the  doubtful  smile. 
While  o'er  her  eyes  a  drowsy  film  there  came, 
And  in  her  cheeks  a  flush  as  if  of  shame. 
And,  looking  round  about,  could  she  behold 
The  chamber  scattered  o'er  with  shining  gold, 
That  grew,  till  ankle-deep  she  stood  in  it. 

Then  through  her  limbs  a  tremor  did  there  flit 
As  through  white  water  runs  the  summer  wind. 
And  many  a  wild  hope  came  into  her  mind, 
But  her  knees  bent  and  soft  she  sank  down  there. 
And  on  the  gold  was  spread  her  golden  hair. 
And  like  an  ivory  image  still  she  lay, 
Until  the  night  again  had  hidden  day. 

But  when  again  she  lifted  up  her  head. 
She  found  herself  laid  soft  within  her  bed, 
While  midmost  of  the  room  the  taper  shone. 
And  all  her  damsels  from  the  place  were  gone, 


12 


And  by  her  head  a  gold-robed  man  there  stood, 
At  sight  of  whom  the  damsel's  shamefast  blood 
Made  all  her  face  red  to  the  golden  hair, 
And  quick  she  covered  up  her  bosom  fair. 

Then  in  a  great  voice  said  he,  *'  Danae, 
Sweet  child,  be  glad,  and  have  no  fear  of  me 
And  have  no  shame,  nor  hide  from  thy  new  love 
The  breast  that  on  this  day  has  pillowed  Jove. 
Come  now,  come  from  that  balmy  nest  of  thine, 
And  stand  with  me  beneath  the  taper's  shine 
That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  once  again  ; 
Then  never  shalt  thou  be  in  any  pain. 
But  if  thou  liftest  up  thy  face  to  Jove 
I  shall  be  kind  to  my  sweet  simple  love ; 
I  shall  bethink  me  of  thy  body  sweet. 
From  golden  head  to  rosy  little  feet." 

Then,  trembling  sore,  from  out  the  bed  she  came 
And  hid  away  her  face  for  dread  and  shame. 
But  soon  she  trembled  more  for  very  love. 
To  feel  the  loving  hands  of  mighty  Jove 
Draw  down  her  hands,  and  kisses  on  the  head 
And  tender  bosom,  as  again  he  said, 
"  Now  must  I  go  ;   and  sweet  love,  Danae, 
Fear  nothing  more  that  man  can  do  to  thee. 
For  soon  shall  come  an  ending  to  thy  woe. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  son  whose  name  shall  grow 
Still  greater,  till  the  mountains  melt  away 
And  men  no  more  can  tell  the  night  from  day." 

Then  forth  he  sprang  and  o'er  the  sea  did  fly 
And  loud  it  thundered  from  a  cloudless  sky. 
13 


O   when    her   damsels    came    to 

her    next  day. 
And  thought  to  see  her  laid  in 

her  old  way 
Upon  the  bed,  and  looking  out 

to  sea 
Moaning    full   oft,   and   sighing 

heavily. 
They   found   her  singing  o'er   a 
web  of  silk 
Where  through  the  even  warp  as  white  as  milk 
Quick  flew  the  shuttle  from  her  arm  of  snow. 
And  somewhat  from  her  girded  gown  did  show 
On  the  black  treadles  both  her  rosy  feet, 
Moving  a  little  as  the  tall  green  wheat 
Moves  in  the  June  when  Zephyr  blows  on  it. 
So,  like  a  goddess  weaving  did  she  sit. 

But  when  she  saw  her  maidens  wondering  stand 
She  ceased  her  song  and  stayed  her  busy  hand. 
And  said,  "  Girls,  if  ye  see  me  glad  to-day 
Be  nought  amazed,  for  all  things  pass  away  ; 
The  good  days  die,  but  also  die  the  bad. 

"  See  now,  in  sleep  last  night  a  dream  I  had 
That  in  his  claws  an  eagle  lifted  me 
And  bore  me  to  a  land  across  the  sea : 
Wherefore  I  think  that  here  I  shall  not  die 
But  live  to  feel  dew  falling  from  the  sky. 
And  set  my  feet  deep  in  the  meadow  grass 
And  underneath  the  scented  pine-trees  pass, 
Or  in  the  garden  feel  the  western  breeze, 
The  herald  of  the  rain,  sweep  through  the  trees, 

14 


Or  in  the  hottest  of  the  summer  day, 

Betwixt  green  banks  within  the  mill-stream  play. 

**  For  either  shall  my  father  soon  relent, 
Or  for  my  sake  some  marvel  shall  be  sent, 
And  either  way  these  doors  shall  open  wide ; 
And  then  doubt  not  to  see  me  soon  a  bride 
With  some  king's  amorous  son  before  my  feet. 

**  Ah  !   verily  my  life  shall  then  be  sweet ; 
Before  these  days  I  knew  not  life  or  death. 
With  little  hope  or  fear  I  drew  my  breath. 
But  now  when  all  this  sorrow  is  o'erpast. 
Then  shall  I  feel  how  sweet  life  is  at  last. 
And  know  how  dear  peace  is  from  all  these  fears. 

"  So  no  more  will  I  waste  my  life  in  tears. 
But  pass  the  time  as  swiftly  as  may  be. 
Until  ye  step  out  on  the  turf  with  me." 

Then  glad  they  were,  when  such-like  words  they 
heard. 
And  yet  some  doubted  and  were  sore  afeard 
That  she  had  grown  light-headed  with  her  woe. 
Dreading  the  time  might  come  when  she  would  throw 
Her  body  on  the  ground  and  perish  there. 
Slain  by  her  own  hand  mighty  with  despair. 
Nathless  the  days  more  merrily  went  by 
And  from  that  prison  men  heard  minstrelsy. 
When  nought  but  mourning,  fisher-folk  afeard 
Who  passed  that  way,  in  other  times  had  heard. 

Yet  truly  Danae  said  that  all  things  pass 
And  are  forgotten  ;   in  that  house  of  brass 
15 


Forgotten  was  the  stunning  bitter  pain 

Wherewith  she  entered  it,  and  yet  again 

In  no  long  time,  hope  was  forgotten  too 

When  wringing  torments  moaning  from  her  drew. 

And  to  and  fro  the  pale  scared  damsels  went. 

And  those  her  guards  unto  Acrisius  sent. 

But  ere  the  messenger  returned  again 
She  had  been  eased  of  half  her  bitterest  pain. 
And  on  her  breast  a  fair  man-child  was  laid ; 
Then  round  the  messenger  her  maids  afraid 
Drew  weeping  ;   but  he  charged  them  earnestly. 
Ever  to  watch  her  in  that  chamber  high. 
Lest  any  man  should  steal  the  babe  away. 
And  so  to  bide  until  there  came  a  day 
When  on  her  feet  she  might  arise  and  go. 
Whereof  by  messengers  the  King  must  know  ; 
So,  threatening  torments  unendurable. 
If  any  harm  through  treachery  befell. 
He  left  them,  and  no  more  to  them  he  told, 
But  in  his  face  the  sooth  they  might  behold. 

Now,  therefore  when  some  wretched  days  were  past. 
And  trembling  by  the  bed  she  stood  at  last. 
She  heard  the  opening  of  the  outer  door. 
And  footsteps  came  again  from  floor  to  floor, 
And  soon  with  all-armed  men  her  chamber  shone. 
Who  with  few  words  now  led  her  forth  alone 
Adown  the  stairs  from  out  the  brazen  place ; 
And  on  her  hot  hands,  and  her  tear-stained  face 
Half-fainting,  the  pine-scented  air  she  felt, 
And  all  about  the  salt  sea  savour  smelt. 
And  in  her  ears  the  dashing  of  the  sea 

i6 


Rang  ever ;    thus  the  God  had  set  her  free. 

But  by  the  shore  further  they  led  her  still 
To  where  the  sea  beat  on  a  barren  hill. 
And  a  long  stage  of  timber  met  the  sea, 
At  end  whereof  was  tossing  fearfully 
A  little  boat  that  had  no  oars  or  sail. 
Or  aught  that  could  the  mariner  avail. 
Thither  with  her  their  steps  the  soldiers  bent ; 
And  as  along  the  narrow  way  they  went, 
The  salt  waves  leapt  aloft  to  kiss  her  feet 
And  in  the  wind  streamed  out  her  tresses  sweet ; 
But  little  heed  she  took  of  feet  or  head 
For  nought  she  doubted  she  to  death  was  led. 
But  ever  did  she  hold  against  her  breast 
The  little  babe,  and  spoke  not  for  the  rest, 
No,  not  when  in  the  boat  they  bade  her  go. 
And  'twixt  its  bulwarks  thin  she  lay  alow, 
Nor  when  adrift  they  set  her  presently 
And  all  about  was  but  the  angry  sea. 

No  word  she  said  until  the  sun  was  down, 
And  she  beheld  the  moon  that  on  no  town. 
On  no  fair  homestead,  no  green  pasture  shone. 
But  lit  up  the  unwearied  sea  alone  ; 
No  word  she  said  till  she  was  far  from  shore, 
And  on  her  breast  the  babe  was  wailing  sore. 
And  then  she  lifted  up  her  face  to  Jove, 
And  said,  "  O  thou  who  once  didst  call  me  love. 
Hast  thou  forgotten  those  fair  words  of  thine. 
When  underneath  the  taper's  glimmering  shine 
Thou  bad'st  me  stand  that  thou  mightst  look  on  me, 
17 


And  love  thou  call'dst  me,  and  sweet  Danae  ? 

Now  of  thy  promised  help  am  I  most  fain 

For  on  what  day  can  I  have  greater  pain 

Than  this  wherein  to-night  my  body  is, 

And  brought  thereto  by  what,  but  thy  sweet  kiss?" 

But  neither  did  she  pray  the  God  in  vain  ; 
For  straight  he  set  himself  to  end  her  pain. 
And  while  he  cast  on  her  a  gentle  sleep, 
The  winds  within  their  houses  did  he  keep 
Except  the  west  which  soft  on  her  did  blow. 
That  swiftly  through  the  sea  the  boat  might  go. 

Far  out  to  sea  a  certain  isle  doth  lie 
Men  call  Seriphos,  craggy,  steep,  and  high : 
It  rises  up  on  every  side  but  one. 
And  mariners  its  ill-famed  headlands  shun  ; 
But  toward  the  south  the  meads  slope  soft  adown. 
Until  they  meet  the  yellow  sands  and  brown, 
That  slope  themselves  so  gently  to  the  sea. 
The  nymphs  are  hidden  only  to  the  knee 
When  half  a  mile  of  rippling  water  is 
Between  the  waves  that  their  white  limbs  do  kiss 
And  the  last  wave  that  washes  shells  ashore. 

To  this  fair  place  the  west  wind  onward  bore 
The  skiff  that  carried  Danae  and  her  son, 
And  on  the  morn,  when  scarce  the  dusk  was  done, 
Upon  the  sands  the  shallop  ran  aground ; 
And  still  they  slept,  and  for  awhile  around 
Their  wretched  bed  the  waves  sang  lullaby, 
But  sank  at  last  and  left  the  long  strand  dry. 

Then  uprose  Danae,  and  nothing  knew 

i8 


What  land  it  was  :   about  her  sea-fowl  flew  ; 
Behind  her  back  the  yet  retreating  sea 
Beat  on  the  yellow  sands  unceasingly  ; 
Landward  she  saw  the  low  green  meadows  lie. 
Dotted  with  homesteads,  rich  with  elm-trees  high  ; 
And  at  her  feet  the  little  boat  there  lay 
That  happily  had  brought  her  on  the  way. 

But  as  it  happed,  the  brother  of  the  King 
Had  ridden  forth  to  hear  the  sea-fowl  sing, 
With  hawk  on  fist,  right  early  on  that  morn. 
Hard  by  the  place  whereunto  she  was  borne. 
He,  seeing  far  away  a  white  thing  stand, 
Deemed  her  at  first  some  maiden  of  the  sand. 
Such  as  to  fishers  sings  a  honied  strain. 
And  leaves  them  longing  for  her  love  in  vain. 
So,  wishful  to  behold  the  sea-folk's  bride. 
He  set  the  spurs  into  his  horse's  side. 
But  drawing  nigher,  he  but  saw  her  there. 
Not  moving  much,  her  unbound  yellow  hair 
Heavy  with  dew  and  washing  of  the  sea ; 
And  her  wet  raiment  clinging  amorously 
About  her  body,  in  the  wind's  despite; 
And  in  her  arms  her  woe  and  her  delight. 
Spreading  abroad  the  small  hands  helplessly 
That  on  some  day  should  still  the  battle's  cry. 
And  furthermore  he  saw  where  by  her  lay 
The  boat  that  brought  her  o'er  the  watery  way  : 
Then,  though  he  knew  not  whence  she  might  have  come. 
He  doubted  not  the  firm  land  was  her  home. 

But  when  he  came  anigh,  beholding  him, 
19 


She  fell  a  trembling  in  her  every  limb, 
And  kneeling  to  him  held  the  young  babe  out, 
And  said  :   **  O  Sir,  if,  as  I  have  no  doubt. 
In  this  strange  land  thou  art  a  king  and  lord, 
Speak  unto  me  some  comfortable  w^ord. 

"  Born  of  a  king  who  rules  a  lovely  land, 
I  in  my  house  that  by  the  sea  doth  stand. 
With  all  my  girls,  made  merry  on  a  day  : 
Now  some  of  them  upon  the  sands  did  play. 
Dancing  unto  their  fellows'  minstrelsy  ; 
And  some  it  pleased  upon  sweet  flowers  to  lie. 
Ripe  fruits  around,  and  thence  to  look  on  them  ; 
And  some  were  fain  to  lift  their  kirtles'  hem, 
And  through  the  shallows  chase  the  fishes  fleet ; 
But  in  this  shallop  would  I  have  my  seat 
Alone,  and  holding  this  my  little  son. 
And  knowing  not  that  my  good  days  were  done. 

"  Now  how  it  chanced,  in  sooth  I  cannot  say. 
But  yet  I  think  that  one  there  was  that  day. 
Who  for  some  hidden  cause  did  hate  me  sore, 
Who  cut  the  cord  that  bound  me  to  the  shore, 
And  soon  amidst  my  helpless  shrieks  the  boat, 
Oarless  and  sailless,  out  to  sea  did  float. 

"  But  now  that  many  a  danger  has  been  passed. 
The  gods  have  sent  me  to  your  land  at  last, 
Alive,  indeed,  but  such-like  as  you  see, 
Cold  and  drenched  through  with  washing  of  the  sea. 
Half-clad,  and  kneeling  on  an  unknown  land. 
And  for  a  morsel  holding  out  my  hand." 

Then  said  he,  **  Lady,  fear  not  any  more, 


20 


For  you  are  come  unto  no  savage  shore, 
But  here  shall  be  a  queen  as  erst  at  home : 
And  if  thou  askest  whereto  thou  art  come, 
This  is  the  isle  Seriphos  ;   and  for  me. 
My  name  is  Dictys,  and  right  royally 
My  brother  lives,  the  king  of  all  the  isle. 
Him  shalt  thou  see  within  a  little  while 
And  doubtless  he  will  give  thee  everything 
That  'longs  unto  the  daughter  of  a  king. 

"  Meanwhile  I  bid  thee  in  mine  house  to  rest. 
And  there  thy  wearied  body  shall  be  dressed 
In  seemly  raiment  by  my  women  slaves. 
And  thou  shalt  wash  thee  from  the  bitter  waves, 
And  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  full  easily 
And  on  the  morrow  shalt  thou  come  with  me 
And  take  King  Polydectes  by  the  hand, 
Who  in  good  peace  rules  o'er  this  quiet  land." 

Then  on  his  horse  he  set  the  Queen,  while  he 
Walked  by  the  side  thereof  right  soberly. 
And  half  asleep,  as  slow  they  went  along. 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  war-horse  strong. 
While  Dictys  by  her  side  Jove's  offspring  bore, 
And  thus  they  left  the  sea-beat  yellow  shore. 
And  as  one  dreaming  to  the  house  she  came. 
Where  in  the  sun  the  brazen  doors  did  flame  ; 
And  there  she  ate  and  drank  as  in  a  dream  ; 
Dreamlike  to  her  the  scented  bath  did  seem 
After  the  icy  sprinkling  of  the  waves. 
And  like  a  dream  the  fair,  slim  women-slaves 
Who  laid  her  in  the  fair  bed,  where  she  slept 
Dreamless,  until  the  horned  white  moon  had  stept 

21 


Over  the  fresh  pine-scented  hills  again. 

But  when  the  sun  next  day  drave  forth  his  wain. 
The  damsel,  clad  in  queen-like  gold  array. 
With  Dictys  to  the  palace  took  her  way  ; 
And  there  by  minstrels  duly  were  they  met. 
Who  brought  them  to  the  great  hall,  where  was  set 
The  King  upon  a  royal  throne  of  gold  : 
Black-bearded  was  he,  thirty  summers  old. 
Comely  and  strong,  and  seemed  a  king  indeed ; 
Who,  when  he  saw  the  minstrels  thither  lead 
Fair  Danae,  rose  up  to  her,  and  said : 
"  Oh,  welcome,  lady  !   be  no  more  afraid 
That  thou  shalt  lose  thy  state  and  dignity  : 
Yea,  since  a  gem  the  gods  have  sent  to  me. 
With  plates  of  silver  will  I  overlay 
The  casket  that  has  brought  it  on  the  way. 
And  set  it  in  King  Neptune's  house  to  stand 
Until  the  sea  shall  wash  away  the  land. 

"  And  for  thyself  a  fair  house  shalt  thou  have 
With  all  things  needful,  and  right  many  a  slave. 
Both  men  and  women ;   fair  shall  all  things  be 
That  thou  mayst  dwell  here  in  felicity, 
And  that  no  care  may  wrinkle  thy  smooth  brow. 

"  And  for  the  child,  when  he  is  old  enow 
The  priests  of  Pallas  shall  of  him  have  care, 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  hard  by  her  temple  fair; 
But  on  this  good  day  in  mine  hall  abide. 
And  do  me  grace  in  sitting  by  my  side." 

Then  mounted  she  the  dais  and  sat,  and  then 
Was  she  beheld  of  all  the  island-men 
Who  praised  her  much,  and  praised  the  sturdy  child, 

22 


Who  at  their  shouting  made  as  if  he  smiled. 

So  passed  the  feast,  and  at  the  end  of  day 
Towards  her  own  house  did  Danae  go  away, 
That  stood  amid  Minerva's  oHve-trees 
Hidden  away  from  moaning  of  the  seas. 

And  there  began  fair  Danae's  Hfe  again. 
And  quite  forgotten  was  her  ancient  pain. 
And  peacefully  did  day  succeed  to  day, 
While  fairer  grew  the  well-loved  child  alway. 
And  strong  and  wise  beyond  his  scanty  years. 
And  in  the  island  all  his  little  peers 
Held  him  for  lord  whatso  might  be  their  worth, 
And  Perseus  is  his  name  from  this  time  forth. 


23 


0_,  eighteen  summers  now  have 

come  and  gone 
Since  on  the  beach  fair  Danae 

stood  alone 
Holding  her  little  son,  nor  yet 

was  she 
Less  fair  than  when  the  hoarse 

unwilling  sea 
Moaned  loud  that  Neptune  drew 
him  from  her  feet, 
And  the  wind  sighed  upon  her  bosom  sweet. 
For  in  that  long-past  half-forgotten  time, 
While  yet  the  world  was  young,  and  the  sweet  clime, 
Golden  and  mild,  no  bitter  storm-clouds  bred, 
Light  lay  the  years  upon  the  untroubled  head. 
And  longer  men  lived  then  by  many  a  year 
Than  in  these  days,  when  every  week  is  dear. 


Now  on  a  day  was  held  a  royal  feast 
Whereon  there  should  be  slain  full  many  a  beast 
Unto  Minerva ;   thereto  the  King  came. 
And  in  his  heart  love  lit  a  greedy  flame 
At  sight  of  Danae's  arms  stretched  out  in  prayer 
Unto  the  goddess,  and  her  yellow  hair. 
Wreathed  round  with  olive  wreaths,  that  hung  adown 
Over  the  soft  folds  of  her  linen  gown ; 
And  when  at  last  he  took  her  by  the  hand 
Speechless  by  her  did  Polydectes  stand, 
So  much  with  fond  desire  bewildered 
At  sight  of  all  that  wondrous  white  and  red, 
That  peaceful  face  wherein  all  past  distress 

24 


Had  melted  into  perfect  loveliness. 

So  when  that  night  he  lay  upon  his  bed, 
Full  many  a  thought  he  turned  within  his  head 
Of  how  he  best  might  unto  that  attain. 
Whose  lack  now  lilled  him  with  such  burning  pain. 
And  at  the  first  it  seemed  a  little  thing 
For  him  who  was  a  rich  man  and  a  king, 
Either  by  gifts  to  win  her,  or  to  send 
And  fetch  her  thither,  and  perforce  to  end 
Her  widowhood;   but  then  there  came  the  thought, 
"  By  force  of  gifts  hither  she  might  be  brought, 
And  here  might  I  get  that  for  which  I  long. 
Yet  has  she  here  a  son  both  brave  and  strong, 
Nor  will  he  think  it  much  to  end  my  days 
If  he  may  get  thereby  the  people's    praise, 
E'en  if  therewith  he  shortly  needs  must  die; 
Ah,  verily,  a  purblind  fool  was  I, 
That  when  I  first  beheld  that  matchless  face 
I  had  no  eyes  to  see  her  heavenly  grace : 
Then  with  few  words  might  I  have  held  her  here 
And  kept  her  for  mine  own  with  little  fear ; 
But  now  I  have  no  will  the  lad  to  slay. 
For  he  would  be  revenged  some  evil  day, 
Who  now  Jove's  offspring  do  I  think  to  be, 
So  dowered  he  is  with  might  and  majesty. 

'*  Yet  could  I  find  perchance  some  fair  pretence 
Whereby  with  honour  I  might  send  him  hence. 
Nor  have  the  youngling's  blood  upon  my  head, 
Then  might  he  be  well-nigh  as  good  as  dead." 

So  pondering  on  his  bed  long  time  he  lay. 
Until  the  night  began  to  mix  with  day, 
25 


And  then  he  smiled  and  so  to  sleep  turned  round, 
As  though  at  last  some  sure  way  he  had  found. 

And  now  it  chanced  to  come  round  to  the  day. 
When  all  the  lords  clad  in  their  rich  array 
Unto  the  King  should  come  for  royal  feast ; 
And  there  the  way  was,  that  both  most  and  least 
Should  thither  bear  some  present  for  the  King, 
As  horse  or  sword,  gold  chain,  fair  cup,  or  ring. 
Unto  which  feast  was  Perseus  bidden  now 
Who  giftless  came,  bare  as  the  winter  bough, 
For  little  was  his  wealth  in  that  strange  land. 

So  there  ashamed  it  was  his  lot  to  stand. 
Before  the  guests  were  called  to  meat,  and  when 
He  sat  amidst  those  royally-clad  men 
Little  he  spake  for  shame  of  his  estate, 
Not  knowing  yet  his  god-like  birth  and  great. 

So  passed  the  feast,  and  when  the  full  time  came 
To  show  the  gifts,  he  waxed  all  red  for  shame : 
For  through  the  hall  white  horses  were  brought  up, 
And  well-clad  slaves,  and  many  a  dainty  cup, 
And  many  a  gem  well  set  in  brooch  or  ring. 
And  laid  before  the  dais  of  the  King. 
But  all  alone  of  great  folk  of  the  land 
With  eyes  cast  down  for  rage  did  Perseus  stand. 
Yet  for  his  manhood  thence  he  would  not  go. 

Now  some  that  secretly  were  bidden  so. 
Beholding  him  began  to  gibe  and  jeer. 
Yet  not  too  loud,  held  back  perchance  by  fear. 
And  thus  a  murmur  spread  about  the  hall 
As,  each  to  each,  men  cast  about  the  ball, 

26 


Which  the  King  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear  at  last, 

And  round  the  noisy  hall  a  look  he  cast. 

And  then  beholding  Perseus  with  a  smile 

He  said,  '*  Good  friends,  fair  lords,  be  still  awhile. 

And  say  no  ill  about  this  giftless  guest. 

For  truly  not  the  worst,  if  scarce  the  best, 

I  hold  him,  and  forsooth  so  rich  I  live 

Within  this  land,  that  I  myself  may  give 

Somewhat  to  him,  nor  yet  take  from  him  aught. 

And  when  I  bade  him  here  this  was  my  thought." 

Then  stretching  out  his  arm  did  he  take  up 
From  off  the  board,  a  jewelled  golden  cup 
And  said,  **  O  Perseus,  come  and  sit  by  me. 
And  from  my  hand  take  this,  that  thou  dost  see, 
And  be  my  friend."      Then  Perseus  drew  anear. 
And  took  the  cup  and  said,  "  This  shall  be  dear 
Unto  mine  eyes  while  on  the  earth  I  live ; 
And  yet  a  gift  I  in  my  turn  may  give. 
When  to  this  land  comes  bitter  war,  or  when 
Some  enemy  thou  hast  among  great  men  ; 
Yea,  sire,  among  these  knights  and  lords  I  swear 
To  do  whatso  thou  bid'st  me  without  fear." 

Then  the  King  smiled  and  said,  "■  Yea,  verily, 
Then  wilt  thou  give  a  great  gift  unto  me. 
Nor  yet,  forsooth,  too  early  by  a  day ; 
To-morrow  may'st  thou  be  upon  thy  way. 

"  Far  in  the  western  sea  a  land  there  is 
Desert  and  vast,  and  emptied  of  all  bliss. 
Where  dwell  the  Gorgons  wretchedly  enow ; 
Two  of  them  die  not,  one  above  her  brow 
27 


And  wretched  head  bears  serpents,  for  the  shame 
That  on  an  ill  day  fell  upon  her  name, 
When  in  Minerva's  shrine  great  sin  was  wrought 
For  thither  by  the  Sea-god  she  was  brought, 
And  in  the  maiden's  house  in  love  they  mixed; 
Who  wrathful,  in   her  once  fair  tresses  fixed 
That  snaky  brood,  and  shut  her  evermore 
Within  a  land  west  of  the  Lybian  shore. 

"  Now  if  a  king  could  gain  this  snaky  head 
Full  well  for  war  were  he  apparelled. 
Because  no  man  may  look  thereon  and  live. 
A  great  gift,  therefore,  Perseus,  wouldst  thou  give 
If  thou  shouldst  bring  this  wonder  unto  me; 
And  tor  the  place,  far  in  the  western  sea 
It  lies,  I  say,  but  nothing  more  I  know. 
Therefore  I  bid  thee,  to  some  wise  man  go 
Who  has  been  used  this  many  a  day  to  pore 
O'er  ancient  books  of  long-forgotten  lore.  " 

Thus  spoke  the  King,  knowing  the  while  full  well 
None  but  a  god  of  that  far  land  could  tell. 

But  Perseus  answered,  "  O  my  Lord,  the  King, 
Thou  settest  me  to  win  a  dreadful  thing, 
Yet  for  thy  bounty  this  gift  will  I  give 
Unto  thine  hands,  if  I  should  chance  to  live." 

With  that  he  turned,  and  silent,  full  of  thought. 
From  out  the  hall  he  passed  not  noting  aught. 
And  toward  his  home  he  went  but  soberly. 
And  thence  went  forth  an  ancient  man  to  see 
He  hoped  might  tell  him  that  he  wished  to  know 
And  to  what  land  it  were  the  best  to  go. 

28 


But  when  he  told  the  elder  all  the  tale, 
He  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "Nought  will  avail 
My  lore  for  this,  nor  dwells  the  man  on  earth 
Whose  wisdom  for  this  thing  will  be  of  worth. 
Yea,  to  this  dreadful  land  no  man  shall  win 
Unless  some  god  himself  shall  help  therein; 
Therefore,  my  son,  I  rede  thee  stay  at  home, 
For  thou  shalt  have  full  many  a  chance  to  roam 
Seeking  for  something  that  all  men  love  well. 
Not  for  an  unknown  isle  where  monsters  dwell." 

Then  forth  again  went  Perseus  soberly 
And  walked  along  the  border  of  the  sea. 
Upon  the  yellow  sands  where  first  he  came 
That  time  that  he  was  deemed  his  mother's  shame. 

And  now  was  it  the  first  hour  of  the  night. 
Therefore  within  the  west  a  yellow  light 
Yet  shone,  though  risen  was  the  horned  moon, 
Whose  lonely  cold  grey  beams  would  quench  it  soon. 
Though  now  her  light  was  shining  doubtfully 
On  the  wet  sands,  for  low  down  was  the  sea 
But  rising,  and  the  salt-sea  wind  blew  strong 
And  drave  the  hurrying  breakers  swift  along. 
So  there  walked  Perseus  thinking  many  a  thing 
About  those  last  words  of  the  wily  King, 
And  as  he  went  at  last  he  came  upon 
An  ancient  woman,  who  said,  "  Fair,  my  son, 
What  dost  thou  wandering  here  in  the  cold  night  ? 
When  in  the  King's  hall  glance  from  shade  to  light 
The  golden  sandals  of  the  dancing  girls. 
And  in  the  gold  cups  set  with  gems  and  pearls 
29 


The  wine  shines  fair  that  glads  the  heart  of  man  ; 
What  dost  thou  wandering  'neath  the  moonlight  wan  ? " 

"  This  have  I  done,"  said  he,  "  as  one  should  swear 
To  make  the  vine  bear  bunches  twice  a-year. 
For  I  have  sworn  the  Gorgon's  head  to  bring 
A  worthy  gift  unto  our  island  King, 
When  neither  I  nor  any  man  can  tell 
In  what  far  land  apart  from  men  they  dwell. 
Some  god  alone  can  help  me  in  my  need ; 
And  yet  unless  somehow  I  do  the  deed 
An  exile  I  must  be  from  this  fair  land, 
Nor  with  my  peers  shall  I  have  heart  to  stand." 

Grim  in  the  moonlight  smiled  the  aged  crone. 
And  said,  "  If  living  there  thou  com'st,  alone 
Of  all  men  yet,  what  thinkest  thou  to  do  ? 
Then  verily  thy  journey  shalt  thou  rue. 
For  whoso  looks  upon  that  face  meets  death. 
That  in  his  sick  heart  freezes  up  his  breath 
Until  he  has  the  semblance  of  a  stone." 

But  Perseus  answered  straightly  to  the  crone, 
"  O  Mother,  if  the  gods  but  give  me  grace 
To  come  anigh  that  fair  and  dreadful  face. 
Well  may  they  give  me  grace  enough  also 
Their  enemy  and  mine  to  lay  alow." 

Now  as  he  spake,  the  white  moon  risen  high 
Burst  from  a  cloud,  and  shone  out  gloriously. 
And  down  the  sands  her  path  of  silver  shone. 
And  lighted  full  upon  that  ancient  crone ; 
And  there  a  marvel  Perseus  saw  indeed. 
Because  in  face,  in  figure,  and  in  weed, 

30 


She  wholly  changed  before  his  wondering  eyes. 
Now  tall  and  straight  her  figure  did  arise, 
That  erst  seemed  bent  with  weight  of  many  a  year. 
And  on  her  head  a  helmet  shone  out  clear 
For  the  rent  clout  that  held  the  grizzled  head  : 
With  a  fair  breastplate  was  she  furnished. 
From  whence  a  hauberk  to  her  knees  fell  down ; 
And  underneath,  a  perfumed  linen  gown, 
O'erwrought  with  many-coloured  Indian  silk. 
Fell  to  her  sandall'd  feet,  as  white  as  milk. 
Grey-eyed  she  was,  like  amber  shone  her  hair. 
Aloft  she  held  her  right  arm  round  and  bare. 
Whose  long  white  fingers  closed  upon  a  spear. 

Then  trembled  Perseus  with  unwonted  fear 
When  he  beheld  before  him  Pallas  stand, 
And  with  bowed  head  he  stood  and  outstretched  hand 
But  she  smiled  on  him  softly,  and  she  said, 
"  Hold  up  again,  O  Perseus,  thy  fair  head. 
Because  thou  art  indeed  thy  father's  son. 
And  in  this  quest  that  now  thou  goest  upon 
Thou  shalt  not  fail :    I  swear  it  by  my  head, 
And  that  black  water  all  immortals  dread. 

"  Look  now  before  my  feet,  and  thou  shalt  see 
Four  helpful  things  the  high  gods  lend  to  thee. 
Not  willing  thou  should'st  journey  forth  in  vain  : 
Hermes  himself,  the  many-eyed  one's  bane 
Gives  thee  two-winged  shoes  to  carry  thee 
Tireless  high  over  every  land  and  sea  ; 
This  cap  is  his  whose  chariot  caught  away 
The  maid  of  Enna  from  her  gentle  play  ; 
31 


And  if  thou  art  hard-pressed  of  any  one 

Set  this  on  thee,  and  so  be  seen  of  none : 

The  halting  god  was  craftsman  of  this  blade, 

No  better  shone,  when,  making  heaven  afraid. 

The  giants  round  our  golden  houses  cried, 

For  neither  brass  nor  steel  its  edge  can  bide. 

Or  flinty  rocks  or  gleaming  adamant : 

With  these,  indeed,  but  one  thing  dost  thou  want. 

And  that  I  give  thee;   little  need'st  thou  reck 

Of  those  grey  hopeless  eyes,  if  round  thy  neck 

Thou  hang'st  this  shield,  that  hanging  once  on  mine. 

In  the  grim  giant's  hopeless  eyes  did  shine. 

"And  now  be  strong,  and  fly  forth  with  good  heart 
Far  northward,  till  thou  seest  the  ice-walls  part 
The  weary  sea  from  snow-clad  lands  and  wan. 
Untrodden  yet  by  any  son  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  Gorgons'  ancient  sisters  three 
Men  call  the  Graiae,  who  make  shift  to  see 
With  one  eye,  which  they  pass  from  hand  to  hand. 
Now  make  thyself  unseen  in  this  white  land 
And  snatch  the  eye,  while  crooning  songs  they  sit. 
From  hand  to  withered  hand  still  passing  it ; 
And  let  them  buy  it  back  by  telling  thee 
How  thou  shalt  find  within  the  western  sea 
The  unknown  country  where  their  sisters  dwell. 

"  Which  thing  unto  thee  I  myself  would  tell. 
But  when  with  many  a  curse  I  set  them  there, 
I  in  my  wrath  by  a  great  oath  did  swear 
I  would  not  name  again  the  country  grey 
Wherein  they  dwell,  with  little  light  of  day. 

"  Good  speed,  O  Perseus  ;   make  no  tarrying, 
But  straightly  set  thyself  to  do  this  thing." 

32 


Now  as  his  ears  yet  rung  with  words  like  these, 
And  on  the  sand  he  sank  upon  his  knees 
Before  the  goddess,  there  he  knelt  alone 
As  in  a  dream  ;   but  still  the  white  moon  shone 
Upon  the  sword,  the  shield,  and  cap  and  shoes. 
Which  half  adrad  he  was  at  first  to  use. 
Until  the  goddess  gave  him  heart  at  last. 
And  his  own  gear  in  haste  aside  he  cast. 
And  armed  himself  in  that  wild,  lonely  place : 
Then  turning  round,  northward  he  set  his  face. 
And  rose  aloft  and  o'er  the  lands  'gan  fly. 
Betwixt  the  green  earth  and  the  windy  sky. 

Young  was  the  night  when  first  he  left  the  sands 
Of  small  Seriphos,  but  right  many  lands 
Before  the  moon  was  down  his  winged  feet 
Had  borne  him  over,  tireless,  strong,  and  fleet. 
Then  in  the  starlight  black  beneath  him  lay 
The  German  forests  where  the  wild  swine  play. 
Fearless  of  what  Diana's  maids  may  do, 
Who  ever  have  more  will  to  wander  through 
The  warm  and  grassy  woods  of  Thessaly, 
Or  in  Sicilian  orange-gardens  lie. 

But  ere  the  hot  sun  on  his  arms  'gan  shine 
He  had  passed  o'er  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine, 
And  heard  the  faint  sound  of  the  northern  sea  ; 
But  ever  northward  flew  untiringly. 
Till  Thule  lay  beneath  his  feet  at  last. 
Then  o'er  its  desert  icy  hills  he  passed, 
And  on  beneath  a  feeble  sun  he  flew. 
Till,  rising  like  a  wall,  the  clifi^s  he  knew 
That  Pallas  told  him  of:   the  sun  was  high. 
But  on  the  pale  ice  shone  but  wretchedly ; 
33 


Pale  blue  the  great  mass  was,  and  cold  enow ; 
Grey  tattered  moss  hung  from  its  jagged  brow, 
No  wind  was  there  at  all,  though  ever  beat 
The  leaden  tideless  sea  against  its  feet. 

Then  lighted  Perseus  on  that  dreary  land, 
And  when  on  the  white  plain  his  feet  did  stand 
He  saw  no  sign  of  either  beast  or  man, 
Except  that  near  by  rose  a  palace  wan. 
Built  of  some  metal  that  he  could  not  name. 
Thither  he  went,  and  to  a  great  door  came 
That  stood  wide  open,  so  without  a  word 
He  entered  in,  and  drew  his  deadly  sword. 
Though  neither  sword  nor  man  could  you  behold 
More  than  folk  see  their  death  ere  they  grow  old. 

So  having  entered,  through  a  cloister  grey 
With  cautious  steps  and  slow  he  took  his  way. 
At  end  whereof  he  found  a  mighty  hall ; 
Where,  bare  of  hangings,  a  white  marble  wall 
And  milk-white  pillars  held  the  roof  aloft. 
And  nothing  was  therein  of  fair  or  soft ; 
And  at  one  end,  upon  a  dais  high 
There  sat  the  crones  that  had  the  single  eye. 
Clad  in  blue  sweeping  cloak  and  snow-white  gown  ; 
While  o'er  their  backs  their  straight  white  hair  hung  down 
In  long  thin  locks ;   dreadful  their  faces  were 
Carved  all  about  with  wrinkles  of  despair ; 
And  as  they  sat  they  crooned  a  dreary  song, 
Complaining  that  their  lives  should  last  so  long. 
In  that  sad  place  that  no  one  came  anear, 
In  that  wan  place  desert  of  hope  and  fear ; 

34 


And  singing,  still  they  rocked  their  bodies  bent, 
And  ever  each  to  each  the  eye  they  sent. 

Awhile  stood  Perseus  gazing  on  the  three 
Then  sheathed  his  sword,  and  toward  them  warily 
He  went,  and  from  the  last  one  snatched  the  eye. 
Who,  feeling  it  gone  from  her,  with  a  cry 
Sprung  up  and  said,  *'  O  sisters,  he  is  here 
That  we  were  warned  so  long  ago  to  fear. 
And  verily  he  has  the  eye  of  me." 

Then  those  three,  thinking  they  no  more  should 
see 
What  feeble  light  the  sun  could  show  them  there. 
And  that  of  all  joys  now  their  life  was  bare, 
Began  a  wailing  and  lamenting  sore 
That  they  were  worse  than  ever  heretofore. 

Then  Perseus  cried,  **  Unseen  am  I  indeed. 
But  yet  a  mortal  man,  who  have  a  need 
Your  wisdom  can  make  good,  if  so  ye  will ; 
Now  neither  do  I  wish  you  any  ill, 
Nor  this  your  treasure  will  I  keep  from  you 
If  ye  will  tell  me  what  I  needs  must  do 
To  gain,  upon  the  earth  or  under  it, 
The  dreary  country  where  your  sisters  sit: 
Of  whom,  as  wise  men  say,  the  one  is  fair 
As  any  goddess,  but  with  snaky  hair 
And  body  that  shall  perish  on  some  day. 
While  the  two  others  ancient  are,  and  grey 
As  ye  be,  but  shall  see  the  whole  world  die." 

Then  said  they,  **  Rash  man,  give  us  back  the  eye 
Or  rue  this  day,  for  wretched  as  we  are, 
35 


Beholding  not  fair  peace  or  godlike  war, 

Or  any  of  the  deeds  of  men  at  all, 

Yet  are  we  strong,  and  on  thy  head  shall  fall 

Our  heavy  curses,  and  but  dismally 

Thy  life  shall  pass  until  thou  com'st  to  die." 

"  Make  no  delay,"  he  said,  *'  to  do  this  thing, 
Or  this  your  cherished  sight  I  soon  shall  fling 
Into  the  sea,  or  burn  it  up  with  fire." 

"  What  else,  what  else,  but  this  wilt  thou  desire  ? " 
They  said,  *'  Wilt  thou  have  long  youth  at  our  hands } 
Or  wilt  thou  be  the  king  of  lovely  lands  ? 
Or  store  up  wealth  to  lead  thy  life  in  mirth  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  have  the  beauty  of  the  earth 
With  all  her  kindness  for  thy  very  own  ? 
Choose  what  thou  wilt  except   this  thing  alone." 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "for  nought  else  I  left  my  home, 
For  this  sole  knowledge  hither  am  I  come. 
Not  all  unholpen  of  the  gods  above; 
Nor  yet  shall  words  my  stedfast  purpose  move." 

Then  with  that  last  word  did  he  hold  his  peace. 
And  they  no  less  from  wailing  words  did  cease. 
Hoping  that  in  that  silence  he  might  think 
Of  their  dread  words  and  from  the  evils  shrink 
Wherewith  they  threatened  him ;   but  in  his  heart 
Most  godlike  courage  fit  for  such  a  part 
The  white-armed  goddess  of  the  loom  had  set. 
Nor  in  that  land  her  help  did  he  forget. 

Withal,  when  many  an  hour  had  now  gone  by, 
Together  did  the  awesome  sisters  cry, 
"  O  man  !  O  man  !  hear  that  which  thou  would'st  know, 

36 


And  with  thy  knowledge  let  the  dread  curse  go. 
We,  least  of  all,  have  'scaped,  of  those  who  dwell 
Upon  this  wretched  fire-concealing  shell. 
Slave  of  the  cruel  gods  !   go,  get  ye  hence. 
And  storing  deeds  for  fruitless  penitence, 
Go  east,  as  though  in  Scythia  was  your  home. 
But  when  unto  the  wind-beat  seas  ye  come 
Stop  short,  and  turn  round  to  the  south  again 
Until  ye  reach  the  western  land  of  Spain  ; 
Then  o'er  the  straits  ye  soon  shall  come  to  be 
Betwixt  the  ocean  and  the  inner  sea. 
Thenceforth  go  westward  even  as  thou  mayst 
Until  ye  find  a  dark  land  long  laid  waste. 
Where  green  cliffs  rise  from  out  an  inky  sea. 
But  no  green  leaf  may  grow  on  bush  or  tree. 
No  sun  makes  day  there,  no  moon  lighteth  night, 
The  long  years  there  must  pass  in  grey  twilight ; 
There  dwell  our  sisters,  walking  dismally, 
Between  the  dull-brown  caverns  and  the  sea. 

"  Tool  in  the  hands  of  gods  !   do  there  thy  might ! 
Nor  fall  like  us,  nor  strive  for  peace  and  right ; 
But  give  our  own  unto  us  and  be  gone. 
And  leave  us  to  our  misery  alone." 

Then  straight  he  put  the  eye  into  the  hand 
Of  her  that  spoke,  and  turned  from  that  white  land. 
Leaving  them  singing  their  grim  song  again. 
But  flying  forth  he  came  at  last  to  Spain, 
And  so  unto  the  southern  end  of  it. 
And  then  with  restless  wings  due  west  did  flit. 
37 


For  many  a  day  across  the  sea  he  flew. 
That  lay  beneath  him  clear  enough  and  blue, 
Until  at  last  rose  such  a  thick  grey  mist. 
That  of  what  lay  beneath  him  nought  he  wist ; 
But  still  through  this  he  flew  a  night  and  day 
Hearkening  the  washing  of  the  watery  way. 
Unseen  :   but  when,  at  ending  of  the  night, 
The  mist  was  gone  and  grey  sea  came  in  sight, 
He  thought  that  he  had  reached  another  world  ; 
This  way  and  that  the  leaden  seas  were  hurled. 
Moved  by  no  wind,  but  by  some  unseen  power ; 
Twilight  it  was  and  still  his  feet  dropped  lower. 
As  through  the  thickening,  dim  hot  air  he  passed, 
Until  he  feared  to  reach  the  sea  at  last. 

But  even  as  his  feet  dragged  in  the  sea, 
He,  praying  to  the  goddess  fervently, 
Felt  her  good  help,  for  soon  he  rose  again 
Three  fathoms  up,  and  flew  with  lessened  pain  ; 
And  looking  through  the  dimness  could  behold 
The  wretched  land  whereof  the  sisters  told. 
And  soon  could  see  how  down  the  green  cliffs  fell 
A  yellow  stream,  that  from  some  inland  well 
Arose,  and  through  the  land  ran  sluggishly. 
Until  it  poured  with  dull  plash  in  the  sea 
Like  molten  lead  ;   and  nigher  as  he  came 
He  saw  great  birds,  whose  kind  he  could  not  name. 
That  whirling  noiselessly  about  did  seem 
To  seek  a  prey  within  that  leaden  stream ; 
And  drawing  nigher  yet,  at  last  he  saw 
That  many  of  them  held,  with  beak  or  claw, 
Great  snakes  they  tore  still  flying  through  the  air. 

38 


Then  making  for  the  cliff  and  lighting  there 

He  saw,  indeed,  the  tawny  stream  and  dull 

Of  intertwining  writhen  snakes  was  full. 

So,  with  a  shudder,  thence  he  turned  away. 

And  through  the  untrodden  land  he  took  his  way. 

Now  cave-pierced  rocks  there  rose  up  everywhere. 
And  gaunt  old  trees,  of  leaves  and  fruit  all  bare  ; 
And  midst  this  wretchedness  a  mighty  hall, 
Whose  great  stones  made  a  black  and  shining  wall ; 
The  doors  were  open,  and  thence  came  a  cry 
Of  one  in  anguish  wailing  bitterly  ; 
Then  o'er  its  threshold  passed  the  son  of  Jove, 
Well  shielded  by  the  grey-eyed  Maiden's  love. 

Now  there  he  saw  two  women  bent  and  old, 
Like  to  those  three  that  erst  he  did  behold 
Far  northward,  sitting  well-nigh  motionless, 
Their  eyes  grown  stony  with  their  long  distress. 
Stared  out  at  nought,  and  still  no  sound  they  made, 
And  on  their  knees  their  wrinkled  hands  were  laid. 

But  a  third  woman  paced  about  the  hall. 
And  ever  turned  her  head  from  wall  to  wall 
And  moaned  aloud,  and  shrieked  in  her  despair ; 
Because  the  golden  tresses  of  her  hair 
Were  moved  by  writhing  snakes  from  side  to  side. 
That  in  their  writhing  oftentimes  would  glide 
On  to  her  breast,  or  shuddering  shoulders  white ; 
Or,  falling  down,  the  hideous  things  would  light 
Upon  her  feet,  and  crawling  thence  would  twine 
Their  slimy  folds  about  her  ankles  fine. 
But  in  a  thin  red  garment  was  she  clad. 
And  round  her  waist  a  jewelled  band  she  had, 
39 


The  gift  of  Neptune  on  the  fatal  day 
When  fate  her  happiness  first  put  away. 

So  there  awhile  unseen  did  Perseus  stand, 
With  softening  heart,  and  doubtful  trembling  hand 
Laid  on  his  sword-hilt,  muttering,  "  Would  that  she 
Had  never  turned  her  woeful  face  to  me." 
But  therewith  Pallas  smote  him  with  this  thought, 
"Does  she  desire  to  live,  who  has  been  brought 
Into  such  utter  woe  and  misery, 
Wherefrom  no  god  or  man  can  set  her  free. 
Since  Pallas'  dreadful  vow  shall  bind  her  fast. 
Till  earth  and  heaven  are  gone,  and  all  is  past  ? 
—  And  yet,  would  God  the  thing  were  at  an  end." 

Then  with  that  word,  he  saw  her  stop  and  rend 
The  raiment  from  her  tender  breast  and  soft. 
And  with  a  great  cry  lift  her  arms  aloft; 
Then  on  her  breast  her  head  sank,  as  she  said, 
"  O  ye,  be  merciful,  and  strike  me  dead  ! 
How  many  an  one  cries  unto  you  to  live. 
Which  gift  ye  find  no  little  thing  to  give, 
O  give  it  now  to  such,  and  unto  me 
That  other  gift  from  which  all  people  flee ! 

"  O  was  it  not  enough  to  take  away 
The  flowery  meadows  and  the  light  of  day? 
Or  not  enough  to  take  away  from  me 
The  once-loved  faces  that  I  used  to  see ; 
To  take  away  sweet  sounds  and  melodies. 
The  song  of  birds,  the  rustle  of  the  trees; 
To  make  the  prattle  of  the  children  cease. 
And  wrap  my  soul  in  shadowy  hollow  peace. 
Devoid  of  longing  ?     Ah,  no,  not  for  me  ! 

40 


For  those  who  die  your  friends  this  rest  shall  be ; 
For  me  no  rest  from  shame  and  sore  distress, 
For  me  no  moment  of  forgetfulness  ; 
For  me  a  soul  that  still  might  love  and  hate. 
Shut  in  this  fearful  land  and  desolate, 
Changed  by  mine  eyes  to  horror  and  to  stone ; 
For  me  perpetual  anguish  all  alone. 
Midst  many  a  tormenting  misery, 
Because  I  know  not  if  I  e'er  shall  die. 

*'  And  yet,  and  yet,  thee  will  I  pray  unto. 
Thou  dweller  in  the  varying  halls  of  blue, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  treacherous  bridge  of  lands. 
Call  now  to  mind  that  day  upon  the  sands, 
Hard  by  the  house  of  Pallas  white  and  cold. 
Where  hidden  in  some  wave  thou  didst  behold 
This  body,  fearless  of  the  cold  grey  sea. 
And  dowered  as  yet  with  fresh  virginity. 

"  How  many  things  thou  promisedst  me  then 
Who  among  all  the  daughters  of  great  men 
Should  be  like  me }  what  sweet  and  happy  life  ! 
What  peace,  if  all  the  world  should  be  at  strife. 
Thou  promisedst  me  then  !      Lay  all  aside, 
And  give  unto  the  great  Earth-Shaker's  bride 
That  which  the  wretch  shut  up  in  prison  drear, 
Deprived  of  all,  yet  ceases  not  to  fear ; 
That  which  all  men  fear  more  than  all  distress, 
Irrevocable  dull  forgetfulness." 

Her  constant  woeful  prayer  was  heard  at  last. 
For  now  behind  her  unseen  Perseus  passed. 
And  silently  whirled  the  great  sword  around  ; 
41 


And  when  it  fell,  she  fell  upon  the  ground, 
And  felt  no  more  of  all  her  bitter  pain. 

But  from  their  seats  rose  up  with  curses  vain 
The  two  immortals  when  they  saw  her  fall 
Headless  upon  the  floor,  and  loud  'gan  call 
On  those  that  came  not,  because  far  away 
Their  friends  and  kindred  were  upon  that  day. 
Then  to  and  fro  about  the  hall  they  ran 
To  find  the  slayer,  were  he  god  or  man. 
And  when  unseen  from  out  the  place  he  drew. 
Upon  the  unhappy  corpse,  with  wails,  they  threw 
Their  wretched  and  immortal  bodies  old  : 
But  when  the  one  the  other  did  behold. 
Alive  and  hideous  there  before  her  eyes. 
Such  anguish  for  the  past  time  would  arise 
Within  their  hearts,  that  the  lone  hall  would  ring 
With  dreadful  shrieks  of  many  an  impious  thing. 

Yet  of  their  woe  but  little  Perseus  knew. 
As  with  a  stout  heart  south-east  still  he  flew. 


42 


OW   at  his  side  a   wallet    Per- 
seus bore. 
With    threads    of   yellow    gold 

embroidered  o'er. 
Shuddering,  therein  he  laid  the 

fearful  head, 
Lest   he,   unwitting   yet    might 
join   the  dead, 
'Or  those  he  loved  by  sight  of  it  be  slain. 

But  strong  Fate  led  him  to  the  Lybian  plain, 
Where,  at  the  ending  of  a  sultry  day, 
A  palace  huge  and  fair  beneath  him  lay. 
Whose  roofs  with  silver  plates  w^ere  covered  o'er  ; 
Then  lighting  down  by  its  enormous  door, 
He  heard  unmeasured  sounds  of  revelry, 
And  thought,  *'  A  fair  place  this  will  be  for  me, 
Who  lack  both  food  and  drink,  and  rest  this  night." 
So  turning  to  the  ruddy  flood  of  light. 
Up  the  huge  steps  he  toiled  unto  the  hall ; 
But  even  as  his  eager  foot  did  fall 
Upon  the  threshold,  such  a  mocking  shout 
Rang  in  his  ears  as  Etna  sendeth  out 
When,  at  the  day's  end,  round  the  stithy  cold 
The  Cyclops  some  unmeasured  banquet  hold. 
And  monstrous  men  could  he  see  sitting  there. 
Burnt  by  the  sun,  with  length  of  straight  black  hair, 
And  taller  far  than  men  are  wont  to  be ; 
And  at  a  gold-strewn  dais  could  he  see 
A  mighty  King,  a  fearful  man  to  face, 
Brown-skinned  and  black-haired,  of  the  giants'  race. 
Who  seeing  him,  with  thundering  voice  'gan  call, 
43 


"  O  stranger,  come  forthwith  into  the  hall. 
Atlas  would  see  thee  !  "      Forth  stood  Perseus  then. 
And  going  'twixt  the  rows  of  uncouth  men 
Seemed  but  a  pigmy  ;   but  his  heart  was  great. 
And  vain  is  might  against  the  stroke  of  fate. 

Then  the  King  cried   "  Who  art  thou,  little  one  ? 
Surely  in  thy  land  weak  must  be  the  sun 
If  there  are  bred  such  tender  folk  as  thou  : 
May  the  gods  grant  such  men  are  few  enow  ! 
Art  thou  a  king's  son  ? "      Loud  he  laughed  withal. 
And  shouts  of  laughter  rang  throughout  the  hall. 
Like  clattering  thunder  on  a  July  night. 
But  Perseus  quailed  not.      "Little  were  my  might," 
He  said,  "  if  helpless  on  the  earth  I  were ; 
But  to  the  equal  gods  my  life  is  dear, 
And  certes  victory  over  Jove's  own  son 
By  earthly  men  shall  not  be  lightly  won." 

So  spake  he,  moving  inward  from  the  door. 
But  louder  laughed  the  black  King  than  before. 
And  all  his  people  shouted  at  his  beck ; 
Therewith  he  cried,  *'  Break  now  this  Prince's  neck. 
And  take  him  forth  and  hang  him  up  straightway 
Before  my  door,  that  henceforth  from  this  day 
Pigmies  and  jesters  may  take  better  heed. 
Lest  at  our  hands  they  gain  a  liar's  meed." 

Then  started  up  two  huge  men  from  the  board. 
And  Perseus,  seeing  them  come,  half  drew  his  sword. 
Looking  this  way  and  that ;   but  in  a  while. 
Upon  his  wallet  with  a  deadly  smile 
He  set  his  hand,  and  forth  the  head  he  drew. 
Dead,  white  midst  golden  hair,  where  serpents  blue 

44 


Yet  dangled  dead  ;   and  ere  they  stooped  to  take 
His  outstretched  arms,  before  them  he  did  shake 
The  dreadful  thing  :    then  stopped  they  suddenly. 
Stone  dead,  without  a  wound  or  any  cry. 

Then  toward  the  King  he  held  aloft  the  head. 
And  as  he  stiffened  cried  at  him,  and  said, 
"  O  King  !   when  such  a  gift  I  bring  to  thee. 
Wilt  thou  be  dumb  and  neither  hear  nor  see  ? 
Listen  how  sing  thy  men,  and  in  thy  hall 
How  swift  the  merry  dancers'  feet  do  fall!  " 

For  now  these,  thinking  him  some  god  to  be. 
Cried  in  their  fear,  and  made  great  haste  to  flee. 
Crowding  about  the  great  doors  of  the  hall. 
Until  not  one  was  left  of  great  or  small. 
But  the  dead  King,  and  those  that  there  had  died. 
—  Lo,  in  such  way  Medusa's  head  was  tried  ! 

But  when  the  living  giant-folk  were  gone, 
And  with  the  dead  men  there  he  stood  alone. 
He  turned  him  to  the  food  that  thereby  lay. 
And  ate  and  drank  with  none  to  say  him  nay  ; 
And  on  the  floor  at  last  he  laid  him  down. 
Midst  heaps  of  unknown  tawny  skins  and  brown. 

There  all  the  night  in  dreamless  sleep  he  lay. 
But  rose  again  at  the  hrst  streak  of  day. 
And  looking  round  about  rejoiced  to  see 
The  uncouth  image  of  his  enemy. 
Silent  for  ever,  with  wide  mouth  agape 
E'en  as  he  died  ;   and  thought,  *'  Who  now  shall  'scape 
When  I  am  angry,  while  this  gift  I  have  ? 
How  well  my  needy  lovers  I  may  save 
While  this  dread  thing  still  hangeth  by  my  side  !  " 
45 


Then  out  he  passed  :   a  plain  burnt  up,  and  wide, 
He  saw  before  him,  bare  of  any  trees, 
And  much  he  longed  for  the  green  dashing  seas. 
And  merry  winds  of  the  sweet  island  shore. 
Fain  of  the  gull's  cry,  for  the  lion's  roar. 

Yet,  glad  at  heart,  he  lifted  up  his  feet 
From  the  parched  earth,  and  soon  the  air  did  beat. 
Going  north-east,  and  flew  forth  all  the  day. 
And  when  the  night  fell  still  was  on  the  way  ; 
And  many  a  sandy  plain  did  he  pass  o'er, 
And  many  a  dry  much-trodden  river  shore, 
Where  thick  the  thirsty  beasts  stood  in  the  night. 
The  stealthy  leopard  saw  him  with  affright. 
As  whining  from  the  thicket  it  crept  out ; 
The  lion  drew  back  at  his  sudden  shout 
From  off  the  carcass  of  some  slaughtered  beast ; 
And  the  thin  jackals  waiting  for  the  feast 
Stinted  their  hungry  howls  as  he  passed  by  ; 
And  black  men  sleeping,  as  he  came  anigh 
Dreamed  ugly  dreams,  and  reached  their  hands  to  seize 
The  spear  or  sword  that  lay  across  their  knees. 

So  at  the  last  the  sea   before  him  lay, 
And  yet,  therefore,  he  ma'de  not  any  stay, 
But  flew  on  till  the  night  began  to  wane. 
And  the  grey  sea  was  blue  and  green  again  ; 
Until  the  sunlight  on  his  wings  shone  fair. 
And  turned  to  red  the  gold  locks  of  his  hair. 
Then  in  a  little  while  he  saw  no  land. 
But  all  was  heaving  sea  on  every  hand. 
Driven  this  way  and  that  way  by  the  wind. 

46 


I 


Still  fast  he  flew,  thinking  some  coast  to  find, 
And  so,  about  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Far  to  the  east  a  land  before  him  lay. 
And  when  unto  it  he  was  come  anigh 
He  saw  the  sea  beat  on  black  cliffs  and  high, 
With  green  grass  growing  on  the  tops  of  them. 
Binding  them  round  as  gold  a  garment's  hem. 

Then  slowly  alongside  thereof  he  flew 
If  haply  by  some  sign  the  land  he  knew. 
Until  a  ness  he  reached,  whereon  there  stood 
A  tower  new-built  of  mighty  beams  of  wood  ; 
So  nigh  he  came  that,  unseen,  he  could  see 
Pale  haggard  faces  peering  anxiously 
From  out  its  well-barred  windows  that  looked  forth 
Into  a  bay  that  lay  upon  the  north  ; 
But  inland  over  moveless  waves  of  down 
Shone  the  white  walls  of  some  great  royal  town. 
Now  underneath  the  scarped  cliffs  of  the  bay 
From  horn  to  horn  a  belt  of  sand  there  lay 
Fast  lessening  as  the  flood-tide  swallowed  it. 
There  all  about  did  the  sea-swallows  flit. 
And  from  the  black  rocks  yellow  hawks  flew  down. 
And  cormorants  fished  amidst  the  sea-weed  brown, 
Or  on  the  low  rocks  nigh  unto  the  sea. 
While  over  all  the  fresh  wind  merrily 
Blew  from  the  sea,  and  o'er  the  pale  blue  sky 
Thin  clouds  were  stretched  the  way  the  wind  went  by. 
And  forward  did  the  mighty  waters  press 
As  though  they  loved  the  green  earth's  stedfastness. 
Nought  slept,  but  everything  was  bright  and  fair 
Beneath  the  bright  sun  and  the  noon-day  air. 
47 


Now  hovering  there,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  sound 
Unlike  the  sea-bird's  cry,  and,  looking  round. 
He  saw  a  figure  standing  motionless 
Beneath  the  clifF,  midway  'twixt  ness  and  ness, 
And  as  the  wind  lull'd  heard  that  cry  again. 
That  sounded  like  the  wail  of  one  in  pain  ; 
Wondering  thereat,  and  seeking  marvels  new 
He  lighted  down,  and  toward  the  place  he  drew. 
And  made  invisible  by  Pallas'  aid, 
He  came  within  the  scarped  cliff's  purple   shade, 
And  found  a  woman  standing  lonely  there, 
Naked,  except  for  tresses  of  her  hair 
That  o'er  her  white  limbs  by  the  breeze  were  wound, 
And  brazen  chains  her  weary  arms  that  bound 
Unto  the  sea-beat  overhanging  rock, 
As  though  her  golden-crowned  head  to  mock. 
But  nigh  her  feet  upon  the  sand  there  lay 
Rich  raiment  that  had  covered  her  that  day. 
Worthy  to  be  the  ransom  of  a  king, 
Unworthy  round  such  loveliness  to  cling. 

Alas,  alas  !   no  bridal  play  this  was, 
The  tremors  that  throughout  her  limbs  did  pass. 
Her  restless  eyes,  the  catching  of  her  breath, 
Were  but  the  work  of  the  cold  hand  of  death. 
She  waited  for,  midst  untold  miseries. 
As,  now  with  head  cast  back,  and  close-shut  eyes. 
She  wailed  aloud,  and  now  all  spent  with  woe 
Stared  out  across  the  rising  sea,  as  though 
She  deemed  each  minute  brought  the  end  anigh 
For  which  in  her  despair  she  needs  must  cry. 


48 


Then  unseen  Perseus  stole  anigh  the  maid, 
And  love  upon  his  heart  a  soft  hand  laid. 
And  tender  pity  rent  it  for  her  pain. 
Nor  yet  an  eager  cry  could  he  refrain. 
As  now,  transformed  by  that  piteous  sight. 
Grown  like  unto  a  god  for  pride  and  might, 
Down  on  the  sand  the  mystic  cap  he  cast 
And  stood  before  her  with  flushed  face  at  last. 
And  grey  eyes  glittering  with  his  great  desire 
Beneath  his  hair,  that  like  a  harmless  fire 
Blown  by  the  wind  shone  in  her  hopeless  eyes. 

But  she,  all  rigid  with  her  first  surprise, 
Ceasing  her  wailing  as  she  heard  his  cry. 
Stared  at  him,  dumb  with  fear  and  misery. 
Shrunk  closer  yet  unto  the  rocky  place 
And  writhed  her  bound  hands  as  to  hide  her  face  ; 
But  sudden  love  his  heart  did  so  constrain. 
With  open  mouth  he  strove  to  speak  in  vain 
And  from  his  heart  the  hot  tears  'gan  to  rise ; 
But  she  midst  fear  beheld  his  kind  grey  eyes. 
And  then,  as  hope  came  glimmering  through  her  dread, 
In  a  weak  voice  he  scarce  could  hear,  she  said, 
**  O  Death  !   if  thou  hast  risen  from  the  sea. 
Sent  by  the  gods  to  end  this  misery, 
I  thank  them  that  thou  comest  in  this  form, 
Who  rather  thought  to  see  a  hideous  worm 
Come  trailing  up  the  sands  from  out  the  deep, 
Or  suddenly  swing  over  from  the  steep 
To  lap  me  in  his  folds,  and  bone  by  bone 
Crush  all  my  body  :   come  then,  with  no  moan. 
Will  I  make  ready  now  to  leave  the  light. 
49 


"  But  yet  —  thy  face  is  wonderful  and  bright ; 
Art  thou  a  god?     Ah,  then  be  kind  to  me  ! 
Is  there  no  valley  far  off  from  the  sea 
Where  I  may  live  alone,  afar  from  strife 
Nor  anger  any  god  with  my  poor  life  ? 
Or  do  the  gods  delight  in  misery 
And  art  thou  come  to  mock  me  ere  I  die  ? 
Alas,  must  they  be  pitiless,  when  they 
Fear  not  the  hopeless  slayer  of  the  day  ! 
Speak,  speak  !   what  meanest  thou  by  that  sad  smile  ? 

"  O,  if  the  gods  could  be  but  men  awhile 
And  learn  such  fearful  things  unspeakable 
As  I  have  learned  this  morn,  what  man  can  tell 
What  golden  age  might  wrap  the  world  again  — 
Ah,  dost  thou  love  me,  is  my  speech  not  vain  ? 
Did  not  my  beauty  perish  on  this  morn 
Dost  thou  not  kiss  me  now  for  very  scorn  ? 
Alas,  my  shame,  I  cannot  flee  from  thee  ! 
Alas,  my  sin  !   no  green-stemmed  laurel  tree 
Shall  mock  thy  grasp,  no  misty  mountain  stream 
Shall  wake  thee  shuddering  from  a  lovely  dream, 
No  helping  god  shall  hear,  but  thou  alone  !  — 
Help  me,  I  faint !   I  see  not !   art  thou  gone  ? 
Alas  !   thy  lips  were  warm  upon  my  brow, 
What  good  deed  will  it  be  to  leave  me  now  ! 

"  Oh,  yet  I  feel  thy  kind  and  tender  hand 
On  my  chained  wrist,  and  thou  wilt  find  some  land 
Where  I  may  live  a  little,  free  froHi  fear. 

"  And  yet,  and  yet,  if  thou  hast  sought  me  here 
Being  but  a  man  no  manly  thing  it  is. 
Nor  hope  thou  from  henceforth  to  live  in  bliss, 

50 


If  here  thou  wrongest  me,  who  am  but  dead." 

Then  as  she  might  she  hung  adown  her  head, 
Her  bosom  heaved  with  sobs,  and  from  her  eyes 
Long  dried  amidst  those  hopeless  miseries 
Unchecked  the  salt  tears  o'er  her  bosom  ran 
As  love  and  shame  their  varying  strife  began. 

But  overwhelmed  with  pity,  mad  with  love 
Stammering,  nigh  weeping  spoke  the  son  of  Jove,  — 
"  Alas,  what  land  is  this,  where  such  as  thou 
Are  thus  tormented  ?  look  upon  me  now. 
And  cease  thy  fear  !   no  evil  man  am  I, 
No  cruel  god  to  mock  thy  misery ; 
But  the  gods  help  me,  and  their  unmoved  will 
Has  sent  me  here  to  save  thee  from  some  ill, 
I  know  not  what  ;   to  give  thee  rest  from  this. 
And  unto  me  unutterable  bliss. 
If  from  a  man  thou  takest  not  away 
The  gift  thou  gavest  to  a  god  to-day ; 
But  I  may  be  a  very  god  to  thee. 
Because  the  gods  are  helpful  unto  me, 
Nor  would  I  fear  them  aught  if  thou  wert  nigh. 
Since  unto  each  it  happeneth  once  to  die. 

"  Speak  not,  sweet  maid,  till  I  have  loosed  thine  hands 
From  out  the  grasp  of  these  unworthy  bands." 

So  straight,  and  ere  her  lips  could  frame  a  word. 
From  out  its  sheath  he  drew  the  gleaming  sword. 
And  while  she  shut  her  dazzled  eyes  for  fear 
To  see  the  glittering  marvel  draw  anear. 
Unto  her  side  her  weary  arms  fell  freed  ; 
Then  must  she  shrink  away,  for  now  indeed 
With  rest  and  hope  and  growing  love  there  came 
51 


Remembrance  of  her  helplessness  and  shame, 
Weeping  she  said,  "  My  fate  is  but  to  die. 
Forget  the  wild  words  of  my  misery. 
Take  a  poor  maiden's  thanks,  and  leave  this  place. 
Nor  for  thy  pity  die  before  my  face, 
As  verily  thou  wilt  if  thou  stay'st  here ; 
Because,  however  free  thou  art  from  fear. 
What  hopest  thou  against  this  beast  to  do. 
My  death,  and  thine  unconquerable  foe  ? 
When  all  a  kingdom's  strength  has  had  no  hope 
With  this  strange  horror,  God-endowed,  to  cope. 
But  deemed  it  good  to  give  up  one  poor  maid 
Unto  his  wrath,  who  makes  the  world  afraid." 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  but  thy  fate  shall  be  my  fate. 
And  on  these  sands  thy  bane  will  I  await. 
Though  I  know  nought  of  all  his  mightiness ; 
For  scarcely  yet  a  man,  I  none  the  less 
Such  things  have  done  as  make  me  now  a  name. 
Nor  can  I  live  a  loveless  life  of  shame, 
Or  leave  thee  now,  this  day's  most  god-like  gain. 
To  suffer  some  unknown  and  mortal  pain." 

She,  hurrying  as  he  spoke,  with  trembling  hands 
Had  lifted  up  her  raiment  from  the  sands. 
And  yet  therewith  she  was  not  well  arrayed. 
Before  she  turned  round,  ghastly  white,  and  said, 
**  Look  seaward  and  behold  my  death  draw  nigh, 
Not  thine  —  not  thine  —  but  kiss  me  ere  I  die; 
Alas  !   how  many  things  I  had  to  tell. 
For  certainly  I  should  have  loved  thee  well." 

He  came  to  her  and  kissed  her  as  she  sank 

52 


Into  his  arms,  and  from  the  horror  shrank, 

CUnging  to  him,  scarce  knowing  he  was  there  ; 

But  through  the  drifting  wonder  of  her  hair, 

Amidst  his  pity,  he  beheld  the  sea. 

And  saw  a  huge  wave  rising  mightily 

Above  the  smaller  breakers  of  the  shore. 

Which  in  its  green  breast  for  a  minute  bore 

A  nameless  horror,  that  it  cast  aland. 

And  left,  a  huge  mass  on  the  oozing  sand. 

That  scarcely  seemed  a  living  thing  to  be. 

Until  at  last  those  twain  it  seemed  to  see. 

And  gathering  up  its  strange  limbs,  toward  them  passed. 

And  therewithal  a  dismal  trumpet-blast 

Rang  from  the  tower,  and  from  the  distant  town 

The  wind  in  answer  brought  loud  wails  adown. 

Then  Perseus  gently  put  the  maid  from  him 
Who  sank  down  shivering  in  her  every  limb. 
Silent  despite  herself  for  fear  and  woe. 
As  down  the  beach  he  ran  to  meet  the  foe. 

But  he,  beholding   Jove's  son  drawing  near, 
A  great  black  fold  against  him  did  uprear, 
Maned  with  grey  tufts  of  hair,  as  some  old  tree 
Hung  round  with  moss,  in  lands  where  vapours  be; 
From  his  bare  skull  his  red  eyes  glowed  like  flame. 
And  from  his  open  mouth  a  sound  there  came. 
Strident  and  hideous,  that  still  louder  grew 
As  that  rare  sight  of  one  in  arms  he  knew  : 
But  godlike,  fearless,  burning  with  desire. 
The  adamant  jaws  and  lidless  eyes  of  fire 
Did  Perseus  mock,  and  lightly  leapt  aside 
As  forward  did  the  torture-chamber  glide 
53 


Of  his  huge  head,  and  ere  the  beast  could  turn, 
One  moment  bright  did  blue-edged  Herpe  burn. 
The  next  was  quenched  in  the  black  flow  of  blood ; 
Then  in  confused  folds  the  hero  stood. 
His  bright  face  shadowed  by  the  jaws  of  death. 
His  hair  blown  backward  by  the  poisonous  breath ; 
But  all  that  passed,  like  lightning-lighted  street 
In  the  dark  night,  as  the  blue  blade  did  meet 
The  wrinkled  neck,  and  with  no  faltering  stroke. 
Like  a  god's  hand  the  fell  enchantment  broke. 
And  then  again  in  place  of  crash  and  roar. 
He  heard  the  shallow  breakers  on  the  shore. 
And  o'er  his  head  the  sea-gull's  plaintive  cry. 
Careless  as  gods  for  who  might  live  or  die. 

Then  Perseus  from  the  slimy  loathsome  coil 
Drew  out  his  feet,  and  then  with  little  toil 
Smote  off  the  head,  the  terror  of  the  lands. 
And,  dragging  it  along,  went  up  the  sands, 
Shouting  aloud  for  joy,  "Arise,  arise, 
O  thou  whose  name  I  know  not !      Ope  thine  eyes 
To  see  the  gift,  that  I,  first  seen  to-day, 
Am  hastening  now  before  thy  feet  to  lay  ! 
Look  up,  look  up  !      What  shall  thy  sweet  face  be, 
That  I  have  seen  amidst  such  misery. 
When  thou  at  last  beginnest  to  rejoice." 

Slowly  she  rose,  her  burdened  heart  found  voice 
In  sobs  and  murmurs  inarticulate. 
And  clean  forgetting  all  the  sport  of  fate. 
She  scarce  could  think  that  she  should  ever  die, 
As  locked  in  fearless,  loving,  strait  embrace, 

54 


They  made  a  heaven  of  that  lone  sandy  place. 

Then  on  a  rock  smoothed  by  the  washing  sea 
They  sat,  and  eyed  each  other  lovingly. 
And  few  words  at  the  first  the  maiden  said, 
So  wrapped  she  was  in  all  the  goodlihead. 
Of  her  new  life  made  doubly  happy  now : 
For  her  alone  the  sea-breeze  seemed  to  blow, 
For  her  in  music  did  the  white  surf  fall, 
For  her  alone  the  wheeling  birds  did  call 
Over  the  shallows,  and  the  sky  for  her 
Was  set  with  white  clouds,  far  away  and  clear : 
E'en  as  her  love,  this  strong  and  lovely  one 
Who  held  her  hand,  was  but  for  her  alone. 

But  after  loving  silence  for  a  while. 
She,  turning  round  to  him  her  heavenly  smile. 
Said,  "  Tell  me,  O  my  love,  what  name  is  thine. 
What  mother  brought  thee  forth  so  nigh  divine. 
Whence  art  thou  come  to  take  away  my  shame  ? " 

Then  said  he,  "  Fair  love,  Perseus  is  my  name, 
Not  known  of  men,  though  that  may  come  to  be ; 
And  her  that  bore  me  men  call  Danae, 
And  tales  of  my  begetting  people  tell 
And  call  my  father,  Jove  :   but  it  befell 
Unto  my  mother,  when  I  first  was  born. 
That  she,  cast  out  upon  the  sea,  forlorn 
Of  help  of  men,  unto  Seriphos  came  ; 
And  there  she  dwells  as  now,  not  gathering  shame. 
But  called  a  Queen  ;   and  thence  I  come  indeed. 
Sent  by  the  gods  to  help  thee  in  thy  need." 

Then  he  began  and  told  her  everything 
Down  to  the  slaying  of  the  monstrous  King, 
55 


She  listening  to  him  meanwhile,  glad  at  heart 
That  he  had  played  so  fair  and  great  a  part. 
But  all  being  told,  she  said,  "  This  salt  pool  nigh 
Left  by  the  tide,  now  mirrors  well  the  sky, 
So  smooth  it  is,  and  now  I  stand  anear 
Canst  thou  not  see  my  foolish  vision  clear. 
Yea,  e'en  the  little  gems  upon  my  hands  ? 
May  I  not  see  this  marvel  of  the  lands 
So  mirrored,  and  yet  live  —  make  no  delay 
The  sea  is  pouring  fast  into  the  bay. 
And  we  must  soon  be  gone." 

"  Look  down,"  he  said, 
"And  take  good  heed  thou  turnest  not  thine  head." 
Then  gazing  down,  with  shuddering  dread  and  awe. 
Over  her  imaged  shoulder,  soon  she  saw 
The  head  rise  up,  so  beautiful  and  dread. 
That,  white  and  ghastly,  yet  seemed  scarcely  dead 
Beside  the  image  of  her  own  fair  face, 
As,  daring  not  to  move  from  off  the  place. 
But  trembling  sore,  she  cried,  *'  Enough,  O  love  ! 
What  man  shall  doubt  thou  art  the  son  of  Jove ; 
I  think  thou  wilt  not  die  :  "   then  with  her  hand 
She  hid  her  eyes,  and  trembling  did  she  stand 
Until  she  felt  his  lips  upon  her  cheek  ; 
Then  turning  round,  with  anxious  eyes  and  meek. 
She  gazed  upon  him,  and  some  doubtful  thought 
Up  to  her  brow  the  tender  colour  brought, 
And  sinking  somewhat  down  her  golden  head. 
Stammering  a  little  now  these  words  she  said,  — 

"  O  godlike  man,  thou  dost  not  ask  my  name. 
Or  why  folk  gave  me  up  to  death  and  shame ; 

56 


Dost  thou  not  dread  I  am  some  sorceress, 
Whose  evil  deeds  well  earned  me  that  distress  ? " 

"Tell  me  thy  name,"  he  said  ;    **  yet  as  for  thee 
I  deem  that  thou  wert  bound  beside  the  sea. 
Because  the  gods  would  have  the  dearest  thing 
Thy  land  possessed  for  its  own  ransoming." 

She. said,  *'  O  love,  the  sea  is  rising  fast, 
And  time  it  is  that  we  henceforth  were  past ; 
The  only  path  that  leadeth  to  the  down 
Is  far,  and  thence  a  good  way  is  the  town  ; 
Come  then,  and  on  our  journey  will  I  tell 
How  all  these  things,  now  come  to  nought,  befell." 

"  Lead  me,"  he  said,  and  lifted  from  the  sand 
The  monster's  head  ;  and  therewith,  hand  in  hand, 
Together  underneath  the  cliffs  they  went. 
The  while  she  told  her  tale  to  this  intent. 

"  This  is  the  Syrian  land,  this  town  anigh 
Is  Joppa,  and  Andromeda  am  I, 
Daughter  of  him  who  holds  the  sceptre  there, 
King  Cepheus  and  Cassiope  the  fair. 

**  She,  smit  by  cruel  madness,  brought  ill  fate 
Upon  the  land  to  make  it  desolate ; 
For  by  the  place  whence  thou  deliveredst  me. 
An  altar  to  the  daughters  of  the  sea 
Erewhile  there  stood,  and  we  in  solemn  wise. 
Unto  the  maids  were  wont  to  sacrifice. 
And  give  them  gifts  of  honey,  oil,  and  wine. 
That  we  might  have  the  love  of  folk  divine ; 
And  so  it  chanced  that  on  a  certain  day. 
When  from  that  place  the  sea  was  ebbed  away, 
57 


Upon  the  firm  sands  I  and  many  a  maid 
About  that  altar  went,  while  the  flutes  played 
Such  notes  as  sea-folk  love ;  and  as  we  went 
Upon  the  wind  rich  incense-clouds  we  sent 
About  the  hallowed  stone,  whereon  there  lay 
Fruits  of  the  earth  for  them  to  bear  away  ; 
Thus  did  we  maids,  as  we  were  wont  to  do, 
And  watching  us,  as  was  their  wont  also. 
Our  mothers  stood,  my  own  amidst  the  rest. 

"  But  ere  the  rites  were  done,  as  one  possessed 
She  cried  aloud,  *  Alas,  what  do  we  now, 
Such  honour  unto  unseen  folk  to  show ! 
To  spend  our  goods,  our  labour,  and  our  lives. 
In  serving  these  the  careless  sea-wind  drives 
Hither  and  thither  through  the  booming  seas  ; 
While  thou  Andromeda  art  queen  of  these, 
And  in  thy  limbs  such  lovely  godhead  moves. 
That  thou  shalt  be  new  Mother  of  the  Loves ; 
Thou  shalt  not  die!   Go,  child,  and  sit  alone. 
And  take  our  homage  on  thy  golden  throne ; 
And  I  that  bore  thee  will  but  be  thy  slave, 
Nor  shall  another  any  worship  have.' 

"  Trembling  awhile  we  stood  with  heads  downcast, 
To  hear  those  words,  then  from  the  beach  we  passed  ; 
And  sick  at  heart  each  went  unto  her  home 
Expecting  when  the  fearful  death  should  come, 
Like  those  of  Thebes,  who,  smit  by  arrows,  fell 
Before  the  feet  of  her  who  loved  too  well. 

"  And  yet  stayed  not  my  mother's  madness  there  ; 
She  caused  men  make  a  silver  image  fair 
Of  me  unhappy,  round  the  base  she  writ 

58 


*  Fairest  of  all,'  and  bade  men  carry  it, 
With  flowers  and  music,  down  unto  the  sea, 
Who  on  the  altar  fixed  it  solidly 
Against  the  beating  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

'*  But  we,  expecting  now  no  quiet  graves, 
Trembled  at  every  murmur  of  the  night. 
And  if  a  cloud  should  hide  the  noon  sun  bright 
Grew  faint  with  terror ;  yet  the  days  went  by 
Harmless  above  our  great  iniquity. 
Until  one  wretched  morn  I  woke  to  hear, 
Down  in  the  street  loud  wails  and  cries  of  fear. 
And  my  heart  died  within  me,  nor  durst  I 
Ask  for  the  reason  of  that  bitter  cry. 
Though  soon  I  knew  it  —  nigh  unto  the  sea 
Were  gathered  folk  for  some  festivity  ; 
When,  at  the  happiest  moment  of  their  feast. 
Forth  from  the  deep  there  came  a  fearful  beast 
No  man  could  name,  who  quickly  snatched  away 
Their  fairest  maid,  and  with  small  pain  did  slay 
Such  men  as  there  in  arms  before  him  stood; 
For  unto  him  was  steel  as  rotted  wood. 
And  darts  as  straw  —  nor  grew  the  story  old. 
Day  after  day  e'en  such  a  tale  was  told. 
—  Kiss  me,  my  love  !    I  grow  afraid  again  ; 
Kiss  me  amid  the  memory  of  my  pain. 
Draw  me  to  thee,  that  I  thine  arms  may  feel, 
A  better  help  than  triple  brass  or  steel ! 

*'  Alas,  love  !   folk  began  to  look  on  me 
With  angry  eyes,  and  mutter  gloomily. 
As  pale  and  trembling  through  the  streets  I  passed; 
And  from  the  heavy  thunder-cloud,  at  last 
59 


The  dreadful  lightning  quivered  through  the  air  : 

For  on  a  day  the  people  filled  the  square 

With  arms  and  tumult,  and  my  name  I  heard. 

But  heard  no  more  ;  for,  shuddering  and  afeard. 

Unto  my  far-off  quiet  bower  I  fled. 

And  from  that  moment  deemed  myself  but  dead. 

How  the  time  passed  I  know  not,  what  they  did 

I  know  not  now  ;  for  like  a  quail  half  hid. 

When  the  hawk's  pinions  shade  the  sun  from  him. 

Crouching  adown,  I  felt  my  life  wax  dim. 

"  The  gods  have  made  us  mighty  certainly 
That  we  can  bear  such  things  and  yet  not  die. 
This  morn  —  Ah,  love,  and  was  it  yet  this  year. 
Wherein  thou  earnest  to  me,  kind  and  dear?  — 
This  morn  they  brought  me  forth,  they  did  on  me 
This  mocking  raiment  bright  with  bravery ; 
They  mocked  my  head  with  gold,  with  gems  my  feet. 
My  heart  with  lovely  songs  and  music  sweet. 
Thou  wouldst  have  wept  to  see  me  led  along 
Amidst  that  dreary  pomp  with  flowers  and  song. 
But  if  folk  wept,  how  could  I  note  it  then ; 
Most  vain  to  me  were  grown  all  ways  of  men. 

*'  They  brought  me  to  mine  image  on  the  sands, 
They  took  it  down,  they  bore  it  in  their  hands 
To  deck  mine  empty  tomb,  I  think,  and  then  — 
O  cruel  is  the  fearfulness  of  men. 
Striving  a  little  while  to  'scape  death's  pain !  — 
My  naked  body  they  spared  not  to  chain. 
Lest  I  should  'scape  the  death  from  which  they  fled. 
Then  left  me  there  alone  and  shamed  —  and  dead  — 
While  to  his  home  each  went  again,  to  live 

60 


Such  vain  forgetful  life  as  fate  may  give. 

*'  O  love,  to  think  that  love  can  pass  away, 
That,  soon  or  late,  to  us  shall  come  a  day 
When  this  shall  be  forgotten  !  e'en  this  kiss 
That  makes  us  now  forget  the  high  God's  bliss. 
And  sons  of  men  with  all  their  miseries." 

*'Turn  round,"  he  said,  **and  let  your  well-loved  eyes 
Behold  the  sea  from  this  high  grassy  hill, 
And  thou  shalt  see  the  risen  waves  now  fill 
The  bay  from  horn  to  horn  of  it  :   no  more 
Thy  footprints  bless  the  shell-strewn  sandy  shore. 
The  vale  the  monster  scooped  as  'neath  my  sword 
He  writhed,  the  black  stream  that  from  out  him  poured. 
The  rock  we  sat  on,  and  the  pool  wherein 
Thou  sawest  the  gods'  revenge  for  heedless  sin  — 
How  the  green  ripples  of  the  shallow  sea 
Cover  the  strife  and  passion  peacefully. 
Nor  lack  the  hallowing  of  the  low  broad  sun. 

"  So  has  love  stolen  upon  us,  lovely  one. 
And  quenched  our  old  lives  in  this  new  delight, 
And  if  thou  needs  must  think  of  that  dull  night 
That  creepeth  on  no  otherwise  than  this, 
Yet  for  that  thought  hold  closer  to  thy  bliss. 
Come  nigher,  come  !   forget  the  more  thy  pain." 

So  there  of  all  love's  feasting  were  they  fain, 
Words  fail  to  tell  the  joyance  that  they  had. 
And  with  what  words  they  made  each  other  glad. 


6i 


O,  as  it  drew  to  ending  of  the 

day, 
Unto    the    city    did    they    take 

their  way, 
And  when  they  stood  before  its 

walls  at  last 
They     found     the     heavy    gate 

thereof  shut  fast, 
And    no    one  on  the  walls  for 
very  shame  ; 
Then  to  the  wicket  straightway  Perseus  came. 
And  down  the  monster's  grinning  head  he  threw. 
While  on  the  horn  a  mighty  blast  he  blew, 
^   But  no  one  answered ;   then  he  cried  aloud, 
"  Come  forth,  O  warders,  and  no  more  shrink  cowed 
Behind  your  battlements  !   one  man  alone 
Has  dared  to  do  what  thousands  have  not  done. 
And  the  great  beast  beside  the  sea  lies  dead  : 
Come  forth,  come  forth  !   and  gaze  upon  this  head  !  " 

Then  opened  was  the  door  a  little  way, 
And  one  peered  forth  and  saw  him  with  the  may. 
And  turning  round  some  joyous  words  he  cried 
Unto  the  rest,  who  oped  the  great  gates  wide. 
And  through  them  Perseus  the  saved  maiden  led. 
Then  as  the  folk  cast  eyes  upon  the  head, 
They  stopped  their  shouts  to  gaze  thereon  with  fear, 
And  timidly  the  women  drew  anear  ; 
But  soon,  beholding  Perseus'  godlike  grace. 
His  mighty  limbs,  and  flushed  and  happy  face. 
Cried  out  unto  the  maid,  "  O  happy  thou, 
Who  art  well  paid  for  every  trouble  now, 

62 


In  winning  such  a  godlike  man  as  this." 
And  many  there  were  fain  his  skirts  to  kiss  ; 
But  he  smiled  down  on  them,  and  said,  "  Rejoice, 
O  girls,  indeed,  but  yet  lift  heart  and  voice 
Unto  the  gods  to-day,  and  not  to  me  ! 
For  they  it  was  who  sent  me  to  this  sea. 
And  first  of  all  fail  not  to  bless  the  Maid 
Through  whom  it  came  that  I  was  not  afraid." 

So  through  the  streets  they  went,  and  quickly  spread 
News  that  the  terror  of  the  land  was  dead. 
And  folk  thronged  round  to  see  the  twain  go  by, 
Or  went  before  with  flowers  and  minstrelsy. 
Rejoicing  for  the  slaying  of  their  shame. 

Thus  harbinger'd  the  happy  lovers  came 
Unto  King  Cepheus'  royal  house  of  gold. 
To  whom  by  this  the  joyful  cries  had  told 
That  all  was  changed  and  still  his  days  were  good. 
So,  eager  in  his  well-built  porch  he  stood, 
No  longer  now  in  mournful  raiment  clad. 

But  when  they  met,  then  were  those  two  more  glad 
Than  words  can  say  ;   there  came  her  mother,  too. 
And  round  about  her  neck  fair  arms  she  threw, 
Weeping  for  joy  ;   and  all  about  the  King 
The  great  men  stood  and  eyed  the  fearful  thing 
That  lay  at  Perseus'  feet :   then  the  King  said, 
"  O  thou,  who  on  this  day  hast  saved  my  maid, 
Wilt  thou  rule  half  my  kingdom  from  to-day  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  carry  half  my  wealth  away .? 
Or  in  some  temple  shall  we  honour  thee. 
Setting  thine  image  up  beside  the  sea  ? 
63 


Ask  what  thou  wilt  before  these  mighty  lords, 
And  straightway  is  it  thine  without  more  words." 

Then  in  his  heart  laughed  Perseus  :  and,  *'0  King," 
He  said,  "  I  ask  indeed  a  mighty  thing ; 
Yet  neither  will  I  take  thy  wealth  away. 
Or  make  thee  less  a  king  than  on  this  day 
And  in  no  temple  shall  mine  image  stand 
To  look  upon  the  sea  that  beats  this  land. 
For  fear  the  God  who  now  is  friend  to  me 
Thereby  should  come  to  be  mine  enemy  ; 
And  yet  on  this  day  am  I  grown  so  bold, 
I  ask  a  greater  gift  than  power  or  gold  ; 
Give  me  thy  maiden  saved,  to  be  my  bride. 
And  let  me  go,  because  the  world  is  wide. 
And  the  gods  hate  me  not,  and  I  am  fain 
Some  fertile  land  with  these  my  hands  to  gain. 
Nor  think  thereby  that  thou  wilt  get  thee  shame, 
For  if  thou  askest  of  my  race  and  name, 
Perseus  I  am,  the  son  of  Danae, 
Born  nigh  to  Argos,  by  the  sounding  sea. 
And  those  that  know,  call  me  the  son  of  Jove, 
Who  in  past  days  my  mother's  face  did  love." 

Then,  glad  at  heart,  the  King  said,  **  Poor  indeed 
Were  such  a  gift,  to  give  thee  to  thy  meed 
This  that  thine  own  unconquered  hands  have  won. 
O  ye  !   bring  now  the  head  and  cast  thereon 
Jewels  and  gold  from  out  my  treasury. 
Till  nothing  of  its  grimness  men  can  see  ; 
And  let  folk  bring  round  to  the  harbour's  mouth 
My  ship  that  saileth  yearly  to  the  south  ; 
That  to  his  own  land  since  it  is  his  will 

64 


This  Prince  may  go  ;   nor  yet  without  his  fill 
Of  that  which  all  men  long  for  everywhere, 
Honour,  and  gold,  and  women  kind  and  fair. 
And  ye,  O  lords,  to-morrow  ere  midday. 
Come  hither  to  my  house  in  great  array. 
For  then  this  marriage  will  we  solemnize, 
Appeasing  all  the  gods  with  gifts  of  price.'* 

Then  loud  all  shouted,  and  the  end  of  day 
Being  come,  Andromeda  was  led  away 
Unto  her  bower,  and  there  within  a  while 
She  fell  asleep,  and  in  her  sleep  did  smile. 
For  on  the  calm  of  that  forgetfulness 
Her  bliss  some  happy  longings  did  impress. 

But  in  the  Syrian  King's  adorned  hall 
Sat  Perseus  till  the  shadows  'gan  to  fall 
Shorter  beneath  the  moon,  and  still  he  thought 
Amid  the  feast  of  what  a  day  had  brought 
Unto  his  heart,  a  foolish  void  before. 
And  for  the  morrow  must  he  long  so  sore 
That  all  those  joyances  and  minstrelsy 
Seemed  unto  him  but  empty  things  to  be. 

Early  next  morn  the  city  was  astir. 
And  country  folk  came  in  from  far  and  near 
Hearing  the  joyous  tidings  that  the  beast 
Was  dead,  and  fain  to  see  the  marriage  feast. 
And  joyous  folk  wandered  from  street  to  street 
Crowned  with  fair  flowers  and  singing  carols  sweet. 

Then  to  the  maiden's  chamber  maidens  came. 
And  woke  her  up  to  love  and  joyous  shame. 
And  as  the  merry  sun  streamed  through  the  room 

65 


Spread  out  unequalled  marvels  of  the  loom, 

Stored  up  for  such  an  end  in  days  long  done, 

Ere  yet  her  grey  eyes  looked  upon  the  sun. 

Fine  webs  like  woven  mist,  wrought  in  the  dawn. 

Long  ere  the  dew  had  left  the  sunniest  lawn, 

Gold  cloth  so  wrought  that  nought  of  gold  seemed  there. 

But  rather  sunshine  over  blossoms  fair; 

You  would  have  said  that  gods  had  made  them,  bright, 

To  hide  her  body  from  the  common  light 

Lest  men  should  die  from  unfulfilled  desire. 

Gems  too  they  showed  wrought  by  the  hidden  fire 
That  eats  the  world,  and  from  the  unquiet  sea 
Pearls  worth  the  ransom  of  an  argosy. 

Yet  all  too  little  all  these  riches  seemed 
In  worship  of  her,  who  as  one  who  dreamed. 
By  her  fair  maidens'  hands  was  there  arrayed. 
Then,  with  loose  hair,  ungirded  as  a  maid 
Unto  the  threshold  of  the  house  was  brought. 
But  when  her  hand  familiar  fingers  caught 
And  when  that  voice,  that  erst  amidst  her  fear 
She  deemed  a  god's,  now  smote  upon  her  ear 
Like  one  new-born  to  heaven  she  seemed  to  be. 

But  dreamlike  was  the  long  solemnity. 
Unreal  the  joyous  streets,  where  yesterday 
She  passed  half  dead  upon  her  wretched  way; 
And  though  before  the  flickering  altar  flame 
She  trembled  when  she  thought  of  that  past  shame. 
And  midst  the  shouting  knit  her  brows  to  think 
Of  what  a  cup  these  men  had  bidden  her  drink. 
Unreal  they  seemed,  forgotten  as  a  tale 
We  cannot  tell,  though  it  may  still  avail 

66 


For  pensive  thoughts  betwixt  the  day  and  night. 
All  things  unto  the  gods  were  done  aright; 
Beside  the  sea  the  flame  and  smoke  uprose 
Over  rich  gifts  of  many  things  to  those 
A  woman's  tongue  had  wounded  ;   golden  veils 
And  images,  and  bowls  wrought  o'er  with  tales, 
By  all  the  altars  of  the  gods  were  laid  ; 
On  this  last  day  of  maidenhood  the  maid 
Had  stood  before  the  shrines,  and  there  had  thrown 
Sweet  incense  on  the  flame,  and  through  the  town 
The  praises  of  immortals  had  been  sung. 
And  sacred  flowers  about  the  houses  hung  ; 
And  now  the  last  hours  of  the  dreamlike  day 
Amid  great  feasting  slowly  passed  away. 

But  in  that  land  there  was  a  mighty  lord. 
To  whom  erewhile  the  King  had  pledged  his  word 
That  he  should  wed  Andromeda,  and  he 
Heard  through  sure  friends  of  this  festivity 
And  raged  thereat,  and  thought  that  eve  to  come 
Unbidden  to  the  feast  and  bear  her  home ; 
Phineus  his  name  was,  great  amidst  great  men. 

He,  setting  out,  came  to  that  great  hall  when 
The  sun  was  well-nigh  down,  all  armed  was  he, 
And  at  his  back  came  on  tumultuously 
His  armed  men-slaves  and  folk  that  loved  him  dear. 

Beholding  him,  the  King  rose  up  in  fear, 
And  all  about  the  place  scared  folk  uprose 
As  men  surprised  at  feast  by  deadly  foes  ; 
But  Perseus  laughing  said,  "  What  feat  do  ye 
This  eve  in  honour  of  my  sweet  and  me? 
67 


( 


Or  are  ye  but  the  servants  of  the  King 
Returning  from  doing  for  him  some  great  thing 
In  a  far  land  ?  then  sit  here  and  be  glad. 
For  on  this  day  the  King  feeds  good  and  bad." 

Then  inarticulate  with  rage  and  grief 
Phineus  turned  on  him,  snatching  at  a  sheat 
Of  darts  that  hung  against  a  pillar  there, 
And  hurled  one  at  him,  that  sung  through  his  hair 
And  smote  a  serving  man  down  by  his  side  ; 
Then  finding  voice,  he  faced  the  King  and  cried, 
"  What  dost  thou  drinking  with  this  robber  here. 
Who  comes  to  steal  that  which  I  hold  so  dear 
That  on  my  knees  I  prayed  for  her  to  thee  ? 
Speak,  Cepheus  !   wilt  thou  give  her  yet  to  me 
And  have  good  peace  withal,  or  wilt  thou  die  ? 
Ho,  friends,  and  ye  that  follow,  cry  my  cry  !  " 

Then  straight  the  hall  rang  with  a  mighty  shout 
Of  "  Phineus,"  and  from  sheath  and  belt  leapt  out 
The  gleaming  steel,  and  Cepheus  stammering 
Took  heart  to  say,  "  Think  well  upon  this  thing ; 
What  should  I  do  ?  the  man  did  save  her  life. 
And  her  he  might  have  made  his  slave,  as  wife 
He  asks  for  now  ;   take  gifts  and  go  thy  way 
Nor  quench  in  blood  the  joyance  of  this  day." 

Then  forth  stood  Perseus  with  a  frowning  face 
Before  them  all,  and  cried  out  from  his  place, 
*'  Get  ye  behind  my  back,  all  friends  to  me  ! 
And  ere  the  lamps  are  lighted  ye  shall  see 
A  stranger  thing  than  ye  have  ever  dreamed  ; " 
And  as  he  spake  in  his  left  hand  there  gleamed 
The  gold-wrought  satchel ;   but  amazed  and  cowed 

68 


Did  the  King's  friends  behind  the  hero  crowd. 
Who,  ere  from  out  the  bag  he  drew  the  head. 
Unto  that  band  of  fierce  new-comers  said  : 
"  Will  ye  have  life  or  death  ?  if  life,  then  go 
And  on  the  grass  outside  your  armour  throw. 
And  then  returning,  drink  to  my  delight 
Until  the  summer  sun  puts  out  the  night." 

But  loud  they  shouted,  swaying  to  and  fro. 
And  mocked  at  him,  and  cried  aloud  to  know 
If  in  his  hand  Jove's  thunderbolt  he  had, 
Or  Mars'  red  sword  that  makes  the  eagles  glad  ; 
But   Phineus,  raging,  cried,  "  Take  him  alive. 
That  we  for  many  an  hour  the  wretch  may  drive 
With  thongs  and  clubs  until  he  longs  to  die  !  " 

Then  all  set  on  him  with  a  mighty  cry. 
But,  with  a  shout  that  thrilled  high  over  theirs. 
He  drew  the  head  out  by  the  snaky  hairs 
And  turned  on  them  the  baleful  glassy  eyes ; 
Then  sank  to  silence  all  that  storm  of  cries 
And  clashing  arms ;   the  tossing  points  that  shone 
In  the  last  sunbeams,  went  out  one  by  one 
As  the  sun  left  them,  for  each  man  there  died. 
E'en  as  the  shepherd  on  the  bare  hill-side. 
Smitten  amid  the  grinding  of  the  storm. 
When,  while  the  hare  lies  flat  in  her  wet  form, 
E'en  strong  men  quake  for  fear  in  houses  strong. 
And  nigh  the  ground  the  lightning  runs  along. 

But  upright  on  their  feet  the  dead  men  stood, 
In  brow  and  cheek  still  flushed  the  angry  blood  ; 
This  smiled,  the  mouth  of  that  was  open  wide. 
This  other  drew  the  great  sword  from  his  side, 

69 


All  were  at  the  point  to  do  this  thing  or  that. 

As  silent  in  the  hall  the  living  sat 
As  those  dead  men,  till  Perseus  turned  at  last 
And  over  all  a  kingly  look  he  cast, 
And  said,  "  O  friends,  drink  yet  one  cup  to  me. 
And  then  to-morrow  will  I  try  the  sea 
With  this  my  love ;  and,  sweet  Andromeda, 
Forgive  me  that  I  needs  must  play  this  play  ; 
Forget  it,  sweet !   thou  wilt  not  see  again 
This  land  of  thine,  upland,  or  hill,  or  plain  ; 
There  where  we  go  shall  all  be  new  to  thee 
Except  the  love  that  thou  hast  won  from  me." 
Then  to  her  frightened  face  there  came  a  smile. 
And  in  her  cheeks  within  a  little  while 
Sweet  colour  came  again  ;   but  right  few  words 
Upon  that  night  were  said  of  King  or  lords. 

But  soon  again  the  lovers  were  alone 
Of  all  the  sons  of  men  remembering  none. 
Forgetting  every  god  but  him  whose  bow 
About  the  vexed  and  flowery  earth  doth  go. 


70 


O  on  the  morn,  when  risen  was 

the  sun 
About  the  capstan  did  the  ship- 
men  run, 
Warping  the  great  ship  to   the 

harbour  mouth 
That  yearly  went  for  treasures  to 

the  south, 
And  thither  from  the  palace  did 
men  bear 
lales  of  rich  cloth,  and  golden  vessels  rare. 
And  gold  new  coined,  and  silver  bars  of  weight. 
And  women-slaves  with  bodies  slim  and  straight 
Stood  on  the  snow-white  deck,  and  strong  men-slaves 
Brought  from  some  conquered  land  beyond  the  waves 
Bore  down  rich  burdens ;   so  when  all  things  due 
Were  laid  on  ship-board,  and  to  noon  it  grew 
Thither  came  Perseus  with  his  new-wed  wife 
And  she,  as  losing  somewhat  of  her  life 
Was  pensive  now,  and  silent,  and  regret 
Must  move  her  that  her  heart  must  soon  forget 
All  folk  and  things  where  first  her  life  began, 
Yea,  e'en  the  mother,  whose  worn  face  and  wan, 
Tearless  and  haughty,  yet  looked  o'er  the  sea. 
As  though  the  life  wherein  no  good  could  be 
She  still  would  bear  in  every  god's  despite  — 


Ah,  folk  forget ;   the  damsel's  heart  grew  light 
E'en  while  her  country's  cliffs  she  yet  could  see. 
Should  she  remember,  when  so  lovingly 
That  cheek  touched  hers,  and  he  was  hers  alone  ? 
71 


Love  while  ye  may  ;   if  twain  grow  into  one 
'T  is  for  a  little  while ;   the  time  goes  by. 
No  hatred  'twixt  the  pair  of  friends  doth  lie, 
No  troubles  break  their  hearts  — and  yet,  and  yet  — 
How  could  it  be  ?  we  strove  not  to  forget ; 
Rather  in  vain  to  that  old  time  we  clung, 
Its  hopes  and  wishes  round  our  hearts  we  hung. 
We  played  old  parts,  we  used  old  names  —  in  vain. 
We  go  our  ways,  and  twain  once  more  are  twain  ; 
Let  pass  —  at  latest  when  we  come  to  die 
Thus  shall  the  fashion  of  the  world  go  by. 

But  these,  while  still  at  brightest  love's  flame  burned, 
Were  glad  indeed,  as  towards  Seriphos  turned 
Bright  shone  their  gilded  prow  against  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  the  folk  of  Joppa,  one  by  one. 
Took  Phineus'  people  and  their  master  dead 
All  turned  to  stone  as  they  had  seen  the  head. 
And  in  a  lonely  place  they  set  them  down. 
Upon  a  hill  that  overlooked  the  town. 
And  round  about  them  built  a  wall,  four-square. 
And  at  each  corner  raised  a  temple  fair, 
And  therein  altars  made  they  unto  Jove, 
Pallas,  and  Neptune,  and  the  God  of  Love  ; 
And  in  Jove's  temple  carved  that  history. 
That  those  who  came  there  after  them  might  see, 
From  first  to  last,  how  all  these  things  were  done, 
And  how  these  men  last  looked  upon  the  sun. 

But  the  two  lovers  going  on  their  way 
Grew  happier  still,  as  bright  day  followed  day; 
And,  the  wind  favouring,  in  a  little  while 

72 


They  reached  the  low  shore  of  the  well-loved  isle  ; 

And,  having  beached  the  well-built  keel,  took  land 

Where  Danae's  boat  first  touched  the  yellow  sand. 

Then  cityward  alone  did  Perseus  go 

His  fatal  gift  unto  the  King  to  show  ; 

And,  passing  through  the  fair  fields  hastily, 

Reached  the  green  precinct,  where  he  thought  to  see 

His  mother,  he  had  left  alive  and  well ; 

But  from  inside  upon  his  ears  there  fell 

A  noise  of  shrieks  and  clashing  arms  and  shouts ; 

Thereto  he  ran  beset  with  many  doubts, 

Since  Polydectes'  evil  wiles  he  knew, 

And  what  a  fate  he  erst  had  doomed  him  to  ; 

So,  hurrying  through,  he  reached  the  shrine  at  last, 

And  there  beheld  his  mother,  her  arms  cast 

About  Minerva's  image,  and  by  her 

Good  Dictys,  who,  with  shield  and  glittering  spear. 

Abode  the  onslaught  of  an  armed  band. 

At  head  of  whom  did  Polydectes  stand. 

Then  to  her  side  sprang  Perseus  with  a  cry. 
And  at  that  sight  and  sound  she  joyfully 
Said,  **  Com'st  thou,  long  desired  ?    Nought  fear  I  now. 
This  kingly  traitor  soon  shall  lie  alow." 
Then  the  King  tottered  backward,  and  awhile 
Stood  staring  at  him :  but  an  evil  smile 
Soon  hid  his  fear,  as,  turning,  he  beheld 
The  glittering  weapons  that  his  stout  slaves  held, 
And  he  cried  out,  "  Yea,  art  thou  back  again  .? 
And  was  my  story  forged  for  thee  in  vain .? 
Be  merry  then,  but  give  me  place  or  die  ! 
I  am  not  one  to  meet  thee  fearfully. 
73 


But  thee,  O  brother,  must  I  then  slay  thee. 
And  in  our  house  must  one  more  story  be  ? 
Give  back  !  nor  for  a  woman's  foolishness. 
Bring  curses  on  the  name  thou  shouldest  bless.  — 
Set  on  at  once  then  !  take  the  three  of  them !  " 

Then  once  more  clashed  the  spears,  but  on  the  hem 
Of  that  dread  satchel  Perseus  set  his  hand. 
And  put  his  friend  aside,  and  took  his  stand 
Betwixt  his  mother  and  the  island  men  ; 
And  terribly  he  cried,  "  Thus  take  thou  then 
The  gift  thou  badst  me  bring  to  thee  !   nor  ask 
Of  any  man  again  another  task. 
Except  to  cast  on  thee  a  little  sand 
That  thou  mayst  reach  in  peace  the  shadowy  land." 
His  mocking  speech  he  ended  with  a  shout. 
And  from  the  bag  the  dreadful  head  drew  out. 
And  shook  it  in  the  King's  bewildered  face ; 
Who  unto  him  yet  strove  to  make  one  pace 
With  feebly  brandished  spear  and  drooping  shield 
Then  unto  stony  death  his  heart  did  yield. 
And  without  any  cry  upright  he  died. 
With  fallen  arms  and  fixed  eyes  staring  wide. 
But  of  his  men  the  bravest  turned  and  fled. 
And  on  the  ground  some  trembled,  well-nigh  dead 
For  very  fear,  till  Perseus  cried,  '*  Arise, 
Lay  down  your  arms  and  go !      Henceforth  be  wise ; 
Nor  at  kings'  biddings  'gainst  the  just  gods  strive." 
But  as  they  slunk  away,  too  glad  to  live 
To  need  more  words,  and  shivering  with  their  dread, 
Once  more  did  Perseus  hide  the  fearful  head, 

74 


And  toward  his  mother  turned  ;   who  with  pale  face, 

Stood  trembling  there,  remembering  that  embrace 

Within  the  brazen  house;   but  now  he  threw 

His  arms  about  her  as  he  used  to  do 

When  her  own  arms  his  little  body  bore; 

And  smiling,  even  as  he  smiled  of  yore, 

He  said,  **0  mother,  fear  me  not  at  all. 

But  yet  bethink  thee  of  the  brazen  wall 

And  golden  Jove,  nor  doubt  from  him  I  came  ; 

And  no  more  now  shall  I  be  called  thy  shame. 

But  thy  defence  and  glory  everywhere. 

"  But  now  to  lovely  Argos  let  us  fare. 
Too  small  a  land  this  is  become  for  thee, 
And  I  may  hope  a  greater  sovereignty. 
Who,  by  God's  help,  have  done  such  mighty  things. 
Which  I  will  tell  thee  of,  while  the  wind  sings 
Amongst  the  shrouds  of  my  rich-laden  keel. 
While  by  thy  feet  a  god-given  gift  shall  kneel, 
My  bride  new  won ;   in  such-like  guise  will  we 
Come  back  to  him  who  gave  us  to  the  sea. 
And  make  our  peace  and  all  ill  blood  forget, 
That  through  long  happy  years  thou  mayst  live  yet." 

Then  did  he  take  good  Dictys  by  the  hand. 
And  said,  *'  O  righteous  man,  we  leave  this  land. 
Nor  leave  thee  giftless  for  the  welcoming 
Thou  gav'st  us  erst,  nor  for  this  other  thing 
That  thou  has  wrought  for  us  this  happy  tide ; 
Therefore  do  thou  as  King  herein  abide. 
And  win  Jove's  love  by  helping  in  such  wise 
As  thou  didst  us,  folk  sunk  in  miseries." 
75 


So  gave  he  kingdoms,  as  he  took  away. 
For  strong  the  God  was  in  him  on  that  day, 
And  the  gods  smiled  to  hear  him  ;  yea,  and  she 
Who  armed  him  erst,  then  dealt  so  lovingly, 
She  caused  the  people's  hearts  towards  him  to  yearn. 
Who,  thronging  round,  began  somehow  to  learn 
The  story  of  his  deeds,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  Be  thou  our  King  ! "   Then  showed  he  to  the  crowd 
Dictys  his  friend,  and  said,  "  I  to  my  kin 
Must  go,  mine  heritage  and  goods  to  win. 
And  a  king,  deal  with  kings ;   but  yet  see  here 
This  royal  man,  my  helpful  friend  and  dear ; 
Loved  of  the  gods,  surely  he  is  of  worth 
For  greater  things."      So  saying  he  went  forth 
And  mid  their  reverence,  leading  by  the  hand 
His  happy  mother,  turned  unto  the  strand ; 
And  still  the  wondering  folk  with  them  must  go. 
And  now  such  honour  unto  him  would  show. 
That  rather  they  would  make  him  God  than  King ; 
But  while  fresh  carols  round  him  these  did  sing 
They  came  unto  the  low,  sea-beaten  sand  ; 
And  Danae  took  the  Syrian  by  the  hand 
And  kissed  her,  full  of  joy  that  such  an  one 
Should  bear  brave  children  to  her  godlike  son : 
Then  Perseus  gave  commands,  and  on  the  shore 
Great  gifts  they  laid  from  out  his  plenteous  store. 
To  glad  King  Dictys'  eyes  withal,  and  then 
Bade  farewell  to  him  and  his  island  men  ; 
And  all  took  ship,  and  hoisting  sail  straightway, 
Departed  o'er  the  restless  plain  and  grey. 


76 


Now  fair  the  wind  was  for  a  day  and  night, 
But  on  the  second  day  as  it  grew  light, 
And  they  were  thinking  that  they  soon  should  be 
At  Argos,  rose  a  tempest  on  the  sea. 
And  drave  them  from  their  course  into  a  land 
Far  north  thereof.      So  on  the  yellow  sand 
They  hauled  their  ship,  and  thereto  presently 
The  good  folk  of  the  country  drew  anigh, 
To  make  their  market ;   and  being  asked,  they  said 
That  this  was  Thessaly,  that  strait  paths  led 
Through  rugged  mountains  to  a  fertile  plain 
Peneus  watered,  rich  with  many  a  fane  : 
That  following  down  the  stream  they  soon  should  come 
Unto  a  mighty  people's  glorious  home, 
A  god-loved  ancient  city,  called  of  men 
Larissa,  and  the  time  was  fitting  then 
To  go  thereto,  and  there  shall  they  have  rest. 
For  now  each  comer  was  an  honoured  guest. 
Because  Teutamias,  the  Thessalian  King, 
His  father  dead  with  games  was  honouring. 

Then  to  that  city  Perseus  fain  would  go. 
His  might  unto  the  gathered  men  to  show  ; 
Desiring,  too,  to  gather  tidings  there 
Of  how  the  old  Acrisius  yet  might  fare. 
And  if  unto  his  scarce-seen  Argive  home 
He  in  good  peace  might  venture  now  to  come. 
So  of  the  country  folk  he  took  fair  steeds 
And  gave  them  gold,  and  goods  for  all  their  needs, 
And  with  a  trusty  band  with  this  intent 
Through  the  rough  passes  of  the  hills  he  went. 
Bearing  his  mother,  and  the  Syrian  may  : 

n 


As  of  a  king's  men  deemed  of  his  array, 

When  to  the  fertile  peopled  fields  he  came ; 

But  yet  he  bade  that  none  should  tell  his  name. 

So  coming  to  Larissa,  all  men  thought, 

That  he  who  with  him  such  great  marvels  brought 

Was  some  great  king,  though  scanty  was  his  band  ; 

So  honour  did  he  get  on  every  hand. 

But  when  the  games  began,  and  none  could  win 

A  prize  in  any,  if  he  played  therein, 

A  greater  name  they  gave  him,  saying,  "  What  worth 

In  this  poor  age  is  left  upon  the  earth 

To  do  such  deeds  ?     Surely  no  man  this  is. 

But  some  god  weary  of  the  heavenly  bliss." 

At  last,  when  all  the  other  games  were  done. 
Men  fell  to  play  at  casting  of  the  stone ; 
And  strong  men  cast  it,  mighty  of  their  hands. 
Bearers  of  great  names  in  the  Grecian  lands  : 
But  Perseus  stood  and  watched  the  play  alone. 
Nor  did  he  move  when  every  man  had  thrown. 
Then  cried  Teutamias,  "  Nameless  one  !  see  now 
How  mightily  these  strong-armed  heroes  throw  : 
Canst  thou  prevail  in  this  as  in  the  rest?" 

**  O  King  !  "  said  Perseus,  "  Now  I  think  it  best 
To  try  the  Fates  no  more ;  I  must  be  gone : 
Therefore  to-day  thou  seest  me  thus  alone, 
For  in  the  house  my  white-armed  damsels  stay 
To  order  matters  for  our  homeward  way." 

"Nay,  stranger,"  said  the  King,  "but  rather  take 
This  golden  garland  for  Teutamias'  sake. 
And  try  one  cast :   look,  here  I  have  with  me 
A  well-loved  guest,  who  is  most  fain  to  see 

78 


Thy  god-like  strength,  yea  we  will  draw  anigh 

To  watch  the  heavy  stone  like  Jove's  bolt  fly 

Forth  from  thine  hand."   Then  Perseus  smiled  and  said, 

**  Nay  then,  be  wary,  and  guard  well  thine  head  ! 

For  who  of  mortals  knoweth  where  and  when 

The  bolts  of  Jove  shall  smite  down  foolish  men?" 

So  said  he,  and  withal  the  King  drew  nigh. 
And  with  him  an  old  man,  who  anxiously 
Peered  round  him  as  if  looking  for  a  foe. 
Then  Perseus  made  him  ready  for  the  throw. 
But  even  as  he  stooped  the  stone  to  raise. 
The  old  man  said,  '*  That  I  the  more  may  praise 
This  hero's  cast,  come  to  the  other  end 
And  we  shall  see  the  hill  of  granite  send 
The  earth  and  stones  up  as  its  course  is  spent." 
So  then  beyond  the  furthest  cast  they  went 
By  some  three  yards,  and  stood  aside  ;   but  now 
Since  it  was  evening  and  the  sun  was  low 
Its  beams  were  in  their  eyes,  nor  could  they  see 
If  Perseus  moved  or  not,  then  restlessly 
Looking  this  way  or  that,  the  ancient  man, 
Gathering  his  garments  up,  in  haste  began 
To  cross  the  place,  but  when  a  warning  shout 
Rang  in  his  ears,  then  wavering  and  in  doubt 
He  stopped,  and  scarcely  had  he  time  to  hear 
A  second  cry  of  horror  and  of  fear, 
Ere  crushed,  and  beaten  down  upon  the  ground. 
The  end  of  all  his  weary  life  he  found. 

Then  women  shrieked,  and  strong  men  shouted  out, 
And  Perseus  ran  to  those  that  drew  about 
The  slain  old  man,  and  asked  them  of  his  name, 
79 


But  the  King,  eyeing  him  as  nigh  he  came, 

Said,  "  This  we  know,  and  thy  hid  name  we  know. 

For  certainly  thou  art  his  fated  foe. 

His  very  daughter's  strange-begotten  son. 

The  child  the  sea  cast  up,  the  dreaded  one. 

This  was  Acrisius,  who  for  fear  of  thee 

Shut  up  thy  mother  by  the  sounding  sea ; 

This  was  the  man,  who,  for  the  very  dread 

Of  meeting  thee,  from  lovely  Argos  fled 

To  be  my  guest.      Nay,  let  thy  sharp  sword  bide 

Within  its  sheath,  the  world  is  fair  and  wide. 

Nor  have  we  aught  to  do  to  thee  for  this  ; 

Go  then  in  peace,  and  live  in  woe  or  bliss 

E'en  as  thou  mayst,  but  stay  with  us  no  more. 

Because  we  fear  the  gods  may  plague  us  sore 

For  this  thy  deed,  though  they  would  have  it  so.'* 

Then  soberly  thenceforth  did  Perseus  go 
Unto  his  folk,  and  straightly  told  them  all 
That  on  that  luckless  day  had  chanced  to  fall ; 
Wondering  thereat,  there  made  they  no  delay. 
But  down  unto  the  sea  they  took  their  way  ; 
And  much  did  Danae  ponder  as  they  went 
How  the  high  gods  had  wrought  out  their  intent. 
And  thinking  on  these  things  she  needs  must  sigh 
For  pity  of  her  sweet  life  passing  by. 

But  when  they  reached  the  border  of  the  sea, 
Then  Perseus  said,  "  Though  all  unwittingly 
I  slew  this  man,  and  though  perchance  of  right 
His  throne  is  mine,  yet  never  will  I  fight 
Against  the  just  gods,  and  I  fear  the  stain 

80 


Of  kindred  blood,  if  slaying  him  I  gain 

His  kingdom  and  the  city  of  my  birth  : 

Now,  therefore,  since  the  gods  have  made  the  earth 

Most  fair  in  many  places,  let  us  go 

Where'er  the  god-sent  fated  wind  shall  blow 

The  ship,  that  carries  one  the  high  gods  love. 

But  first  the  armed  lovely  maid  of  Jove 

Here  let  us  worship,  on  this  yellow  beach, 

That  her,  my  helper  erst,  we  may  beseech 

To  grant  us  much,  and  first  of  all  things,  this, 

A  land  where  we  may  dwell  awhile  in  bliss." 

They  heard  him  gladly,  for  the  most  of  those 
Were  young,  and  yet  by  mishaps  and  by  foes 
Had  learned  to  think  the  world  a  weary  thing ; 
So  round  about  the  altar  did  they  sing 
And  feasted  well,  and  when  the  day  came  round 
Once  more,  they  went  a-shipboard  to  the  sound 
Of  trumpets  and  heart-moving  melody. 
And  gave  their  rich  keel  to  the  restless  sea. 

Then  for  four  days  before  the  wind  they  drove. 
Until  at  last  in  sight  a  new  land  hove 
Their  pilot  called  the  coast  of  Argolis, 
That  rich  in  cattle  and  in  horses  is. 

But  landing  there  had  Perseus'  godlike  fame 
Gone  on  before  him,  and  the  people  came 
And  cried  upon  him  for  their  King  and  lord. 
The  people's  saving  shield  and  conquering  sword ; 
So  in  that  land  he  failed  not  to  abide. 
And  there  with  many  rites  he  purified 
His  fated  hands  of  that  unlooked-for  guilt : 
And  there  a  town  within  a  while  he  built 
8i 


Men  call  Mycens.      Peaceful  grew  the  land 

The  while  the  ivory  rod  was  in  his  hand, 

For  robbers  fled,  and  good  men  still  waxed  strong, 

And  in  no  house  was  any  sound  of  wrong, 

Until  the  Golden  Age  seemed  there  to  be, 

So  steeped  the  land  was  in  felicity. 

Time  past,  and  there  his  wife  and  mother  died. 
And  he,  no  god,  must  lie  down  by  their  side, 
While  Alceus  his  first  son  reigned  after  him, 
A  conquering  king,  and  fair,  and  strong  of  limb. 

But  long  ere  this  he  did  not  fail  to  lay 
The  sacred  things  that  brought  him  on  his  way 
Within  Minerva's  temple ;   there  with  awe 
'Twixt  silver  bars,  all  folk  these  marvels  saw. 
But  not  for  long,  for  on  the  twentieth  day 
From  the  fair  temple  were  they  snatched  away 
Though  by  the  armed  priests  guarded  faithfully. 
But  still  the  empty  wallet  there  did  lie 
Wherein  had  Perseus  borne  the  head  with  him. 
Which  still  when  his  great  deeds  were  waxing  dim, 
Hung  in  the  Maiden's  temple  near  the  shrine. 
And  folk  would  pour  before  it  oil  and  wine. 

And  know  besides,  that  from  that  very  year 
Those  who  are  wise  say  that  the  Maid  doth  bear 
Amidst  her  shield  that  awful  snaky  head 
Whereby  so  many  heedless  ones  are  dead. 


82 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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2^      ^^c^-c/r.j:jl2  .77 


NOV  2 
21  Ml 


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SEacifi   DEC  3     197) 


[J  101981 


RETD     SEP  a  8  1981 


,^ri       -*ftN3     1985 

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■JOLQ,   -;j;: 


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162 


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General  Library  i(^*7       >^  t)Wi 

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